The Crimson Thread by Kate Forsyth

Author:Kate Forsyth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2022-03-22T21:51:18+00:00

VII

24 December 1941

Christmas Eve. The village was dark and silent. No candles in the windows, no church bells ringing in jubilation. No children singing carols and tinkling metal triangles in return for roasted chestnuts and honey cakes. No delicious smells, no prospect of a feast the next day to break the long winter fast. No laughter and music as the family piglet was slow roasted on a bed of lemon leaves, its bones made into broth, its bristles turned into brushes, its skin tanned to make shoes for the winter, its bladder inflated into a ball for the boys to kick.

The garrison had stolen all the village pigs, an unspoken punishment for the German soldier in British uniform who had been delivered, bound and glowering, back to the barracks at the Villa Ariadne. The new divisional commander, Josef Foltmann, had been forced to reward Micky for the capture of his own man, and he had not been pleased at all. Raids and retributions had made all their lives miserable these past ten days. Micky had wanted to give Axel a good thrashing, but Alenka had convinced him to leave her brother alone. “We must give them no reason to suspect us,” she had argued. “Let them think Axel made a mistake.”

Now the smell of cooking meat tortured all those who lived in the shadow of the villa’s barbed-wire-fortified walls. Alenka did not think it was possible to hate anyone as much as she hated the Germans.

Axel had gone to the villa, hoping for some scraps, so Alenka was free to sneak out. Micky was having a gathering of friends in the vineyard. They had little to eat, but there was always song and wine and olives.

She hurried through the silent village, careful to keep to the shadows. The road wound up the hill, and down again, through long lines of bare clipped trellises. Braziers burned in long rows between the vines like golden fairy lights. A crowd of young people huddled about a bonfire, wrapped in heavy coats and goatskin cloaks. Overhead, a thousand stars glittered.

Micky and Phyllia and her friends welcomed her eagerly, kissing her three times on the cheeks and crying, “Kalá Christoúgenna!” The ramshackle table was spread with platters of bread, bowls of olive oil and salt, and a few small parcels of rice and herbs wrapped up in vine leaves. Alenka added her contribution—spiced rolls made with crushed acorns—and went to the bonfire, where George was stirring the rakomelo, pomace brandy heated with cinnamon, cloves, and honey.

“Here, let me warm you up.” He grinned at her, serving her a mug of the honeyed brandy. “I’ve been gathering together all the weapons that were dropped during the retreat. We’ve stockpiled them in a cave, ready for the day we can rise and fight the cuckolds.”

“How many?” she asked eagerly.

“A lot. But many have no ammunition or are broken. We need to practice shooting with them, but it is hard when there is so little ammunition.”

Alenka became aware of a frisson of excitement among the other young women.

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