The Angry Hills (17 page)

“I understand,” Lisa answered in perfect English.

The cart turned onto another dirt path and soon Kaloghriani disappeared completely from their sight.

Lisa glanced at the man she knew as “Vassili.” He was not at all as her mind had pictured he would be. He was a strapping, extremely handsome man, deeply tanned, and his beard was close cut and neatly trimmed. His pale-blue eyes had a penetrating and searching look.

His eyes frightened her. Mike had observed her carefully when she entered the cottage but his look was not like that of other men. It was a look of curiosity and it seemed to penetrate her thoughts. She was uncomfortable in an instant and avoided his glances. Who is he? she thought. Could he possibly be aware? Could he possibly know?

Lisa looked at her watch. They could make Dadi by nightfall, a bit later than anticipated. There were many things to be done.

It was pleasant here in the hills, far from Athens. Athens had turned into a city of sorrow. Here, the birds sang as if they did not know their land had been conquered and the forest stood tall and proud.

Mike was quiet.

He felt that a door had shut behind him which he might never be able to open again. He felt he would never again know men like Barba-Leonidas and Christos and the peasants of Paleachora and Kaloghriani. He was surprised at how deeply he felt the loss of Eleftheria.

All his life Michael Morrison had accepted mediocrity in people. He accepted it fully when the long struggle to produce his first book was over and the shocking disappointment of a small sale embittered him.

He accepted mediocrity when his writing turned sour and his pages were cluttered with mediocre people. It had become a struggle to keep at his typewriter and he had hated himself as he saw his words drip venom.

The death of Ellie had seemed to put a stamp of mediocrity on him for life.

But now as he came from the hills an urge to write again overwhelmed him—to write about wonderful, beautiful people he never knew existed. People who faced crushing tragedy not with defeatism, but with hope. People whose lives were uncluttered and warm. He had found the secret of the true nobility of man in these hills and he wanted to reveal it in the only way he knew how—at his typewriter.

The day was a long and silent one, both of them withdrawn in their own thoughts.

At nightfall the donkey cart pulled into the town of Dadi.

Mike and Lisa were shaken from their reveries.

For Mike, it was as though he was coming into another age. He was intrigued by the red-tile roofs, by the sight of an automobile and a sidewalk, to say nothing of the women in modern dress.

The donkey driver was dismissed and they set off for the main square. Lisa led Mike to a bakery run by a hefty character identified as Baziadis.

A room in the rear of the bakery turned out to be an arsenal. It had a cache of everything from pistols to homemade bombs and machine guns. A second man, Rigas, a photographer, locked himself in with them and went to work.

First, Mike was given a suit of second-hand city clothes. Rigas photographed him and then presented him with forged travel papers and a card which bore the name: Vassilios Papadopoulos. Then Rigas produced train tickets and money and went over instructions with Lisa.

Baziadis, the bakery owner, came in after his night’s baking chores were over, and the four of them joined in a silent meal.

It was two in the morning when everything was declared in order and Rigas and Baziadis left.

Lisa and Mike stretched out on cots at opposite ends of the room. A small bare light bulb burned all night.

It was impossible for Mike to sleep. His head was riddled with questions about the trip.

The woman he knew as Helena was wide-eyed too.

She was indeed a beautiful thing, Mike thought. But there was something terribly strange about her, something he could not put his finger on, but something he did not like.

“Do you have a cigarette? I don’t want to break the package open for pipe tobacco.”

She sat up and opened her purse. As Mike lit up their eyes met. They stared at each other for a long time.

Then Lisa turned her head away and lay back on the cot.

“We’d better get some sleep,” she said.

FOUR

M
ORNING.

Both Lisa and Mike showed signs of sleeplessness. They arose, washed in cold water and ate a hasty meal of cheese and milk.

Mike had spent the entire night with his hand on his pistol and his head filled with fears and distrust. The morning found him edgy and taut. He jumped at every strange sound.

About seven o’clock, Baziadis came and opened the bakery and they departed through a rear door. The silence between them continued on the short walk through the square to the railroad depot.

When Mike saw the train pulling in, all his apprehensions took possession of him. As the train neared, it began to take on the shape of a coffin. He again felt for the pistol in his belt, but this time it gave him little comfort.

Lisa held his arm. They walked through the depot shed onto the platform. The wheels ground to a halt. The train hissed. Travelers scurried off and on to calls by the station master.

The pair edged toward a car. Mike halted abruptly.

He saw a conductor standing beside a car exchange glances with Lisa and nod. Lisa nodded back in recognition.

Mike froze, but at her prod he moved on. They stepped into the train.

He looked down the aisle quickly. It was a car of wooden benches, half-filled with city people. All of them were wailing a unanimous chorus of troubles. He scanned the car for a sign of a hostile or alien face. No one gave them a second glance as they found a double seat.

Mike sat beside a window and tried it out. It worked smoothly.

His heart jumped as the train started and moved out of the Dadi depot.

Lisa avoided conversation and even looking at Mike. But she could feel his tension. His hands had been wringing wet when she led him onto the train. She hoped everything would go off on schedule. His nervousness could well upset her whole plan.

She looked past Mike out of the window. Scenery flitted by.

No sooner did the train get up speed when it slowed for another village. Then another—and another. The car became jammed. People sat on their baggage in the aisles. Stop and go—stop and go—stop and go.

Mike managed to relax a trifle. He took out some pipe tobacco and lit up. It smelled good to Lisa. Her father had smoked a pipe of the same sharp-smelling blend and its scent drifted her back into memories of happier days....

The clock pressed toward noon. By now Mike was more at ease but he remained alert. The chorus of misery about them did not lessen for an instant.

Early afternoon.

Lisa became restless. Her energy was drained. Mike reckoned she was not too strong a girl and was probably worn out from the trip up to Kaloghriani.

“You look tired,” he said. “Why don’t you stretch out over the seat and take a nap?”

She said, “No,” in what was an automatic rejection of any male proposal.

“Go on, it will do you good.”

Lisa smiled weakly. It was the first time Mike had seen that smile. It was warm and wonderful. She glanced at her watch, then curled up and put her head in his lap, her legs tucked under her. At first she was stiff and aware of him, then she eased and began to doze. In several moments the weariness lulled her to sleep.

Mike gazed down at her. Perhaps he had been wrong. Under the circumstances, it was only natural for him to be keyed up. She was certainly a beautiful woman, although she looked almost childlike sleeping there. A sudden thrill passed through his body. He had an irresistible urge to touch her hair.... At that moment, he did not care if the train ever reached Athens.

Then he stretched his legs and tapped out his pipe. In a few moments his eyes shut and the rhythm of the wheels lulled him into an exhausted sleep. Lisa looked up from his lap, now much more at ease that he was asleep.

Three men stood over them.

Mike’s eyes opened. He stared at them in fright. He felt a nervous twitch start from the corner of his eye.

One of the men was the conductor, the same one who had exchanged signals with Lisa at the depot.

Next to him, in the crowded aisle, stood two armed men in the uniforms of Italian carabinieri. He felt Lisa stir and knew she was awake but feigning sleep.

“Identification!” one Italian snapped.

Mike began to fumble through his pockets with trembling hands. Lisa came awake quickly.

Her hand reached up to Mike’s inside pocket and took out his travel card. She sat up, stretched, yawned and touched her disheveled hair.

“Vassili, you are always misplacing things. I told you to let me hold it,” she said, patting Mike’s cheek and bussing him softly. She handed the card to the Italian. “Oh, to be married to a teacher at the university! His head is always in the clouds.”

Lisa smiled at them, the type of smile a woman uses to lure a man. The Italian was all business. He was not lured.

“Vassili,” she said, “give the gentlemen our tickets. Do not keep them waiting.”

The carabinieri in their funny Napoleonic hats scrutinized Mike’s card. They kept staring from the card to Mike. They began to whisper to each other. Lisa and the Greek conductor’s eyes met.

Mike’s hand felt for the pistol in his belt. He turned and looked outside. The train was slowing.

“You! Stand up! Open your bundle!”

Mike got to his feet slowly.

“Come on now,” the conductor moaned. “The train is full. It will take us all night. Let’s get on with it so we may return to our card game.”

The Italian read the back of the card, looked up at Mike again, then handed the pass back and moved to the next seat forward.

The train gathered speed.

It took Mike many moments to calm down. He felt foolish and disgusted with himself. Obviously the woman and the conductor knew what they were doing. He remained rigid until the inspectors left the car.

“Give me a cigarette,” he said.

She handed him a pack labeled Number 1.

“I want your pistol,” she whispered sharply.

“Nothing doing.”

“Stop speaking in English, you fool. People are staring at us. Another stupid move like that and you’ll land us both in Averof. Now give it to me; we’ll never get off the train with it.”

Mike gritted his teeth and fussed like a small boy then reluctantly slipped the pistol to her. He felt naked the instant he was without it. Lisa put it in her purse quickly and made off down the aisle.

In several moments she returned to the seat.

“What did you do with it?”

“It is on the rail bed somewhere between Amphissa and Levadeia.”

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

She was. She didn’t answer.

“How much more of this do we have?”

“We will not arrive till early morning.”

“Well, you might as well try to catch some more sleep.”

“You may sleep if you wish. I’m staying awake,” she said, obviously referring to his display of panic.

Lisa snuggled into his arms suddenly and kissed his cheek. In a second he realized the affection was for the benefit of the two Italians who were doubling back through the car.

The balance of the trip was spent in utter silence. It was four in the morning when the train pulled into Larissa Terminal in Athens.

FIVE

T
HE TRAM RIDE ENDED
in a suburb of Athens named Chalandri about six miles from the center of the city. It was, in the main, a truck farm and orchard area.

Lisa led Michael down a path in the direction of a frame house, then swung away from it onto another path that ran through a grove of lemon trees. A small isolated pump house appeared in the midst of the grove.

She opened the door and entered first and lit a kerosene lamp. A smell of mustiness hit them. Even though it was almost midday the pump house was dark; the only opening was a twelve-by-twelve-inch mesh screen near the top. The place had long been out of use as a pump house. There were a pair of cots, a table and a chair on the dirt floor. The table held a lamp and a can of fuel. A dozen books on one of the cots caught Mike’s attention.

When the train had arrived in Athens many of the passengers attempted to escape inspection by ducking out of the windows. Most of them were rounded up immediately. Mike and Lisa spent four nerve-racking hours before passing the inspection desks and, when it came, it came without incident.

“Home at last,” Mike said, dumping the sack on the table.

Lisa stood before him, as aloof as a statue. “Lazarus who owns this farm is one of our trusted people. He is instructed to keep away from here and make no contact with you. You will report if he makes any intrusions.”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“A meal will be left outside the door daily after sundown. There is a trench latrine alongside the building. You are to use it only after dark. Under no other circumstances are you to leave this house.”

“Anything else?”

“You needn’t be smart. You were brought here at a great deal of expense and risk.”

“You haven’t exactly been a member of the Hellas Welcome Wagon, yourself.”

Mike sat on one of the cots and it creaked under his weight. He glanced at the titles of the books... Shakespeare, Shaw, Wilde, Goldsmith and a bevy of lesser English playwrights and poets. It was a catholic collection. Another set of small volumes bore the names of Aristotle, Socrates and Plato. “Looks like I’m in for some required reading. You don’t happen to own an American Western? I’m strictly a diversionist when it comes to reading....”

Mike’s attempt at humor didn’t register.

“Turn your back,” she ordered.

Mike heard the rustle of silk underthings and quelled a natural inclination to peek.

“You may turn now.”

In one hand Lisa held his pistol, in the other, his roll of drachmas. She dropped them on the table. “In the future, try to be more discriminating before pulling a gun.”

Mike was completely deflated now.

“When do I see Dr. Thackery?”