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  Then came the explosion. There was a blinding white flash and a hollow crumph as though someone had burst a blown-up paper bag; then there was nothing but flames and thick whitish-grey smoke. The flames were coming up through the floor and through the sides of the cockpit; the smoke was so thick that it was difficult to see and almost impossible to breathe. She became terrified and panicky because he was still sitting there at the controls, flying the machine, fighting to keep it on an even keel, turning the wheel first to one side, then to the other, and suddenly there was a blast of cold air and she had a vague impression of urgent crouching figures scrambling past her and throwing themselves away from the burning aircraft.

  Now the whole thing was a mass of flames and through the smoke she could see him still sitting there, fighting with the wheel while the crew got out, and as he did so he held one arm up over his face because the heat was so great. She rushed forward and took him by the shoulders and shook him and shouted, ‘Come on, quickly, you must get out, quickly, quickly.’

  Then she saw that his head had fallen forward upon his chest and that he was limp and unconscious. Frantically she tried to pull him out of the seat and towards the door, but he was too limp and heavy. The smoke was filling her lungs and her throat so that she began to retch and gasp for breath. She was hysterical now, fighting against death and against everything, and she managed to get her hands under his arms and drag him a little way towards the door. But it was impossible to get him farther. His legs were tangled around the wheel and there was a buckle somewhere which she could not undo. She knew then that it was impossible, that there was no hope because of the smoke and the fire and because there was no time; and suddenly all the strength drained out of her body. She fell down on top of him and began to cry as she had never cried before.

  Then came the spin and the fierce rushing dive downwards and she was thrown forward into the fire so that the last she knew was the bright yellow of the flames and the smell of the burning.

  Her eyes were closed and her head was resting against the back of the chair. Her hands were clutching the edges of the blankets as though she were trying to pull them tighter around her body and her long hair fell down over her shoulders.

  Outside the moon was low in the sky. The frost lay heavier than ever on the fields and on the hedges and there was no noise anywhere. Then from far away in the south came a deep gentle rumble which grew and grew and became louder and louder until soon the whole sky was filled with the noise and the singing of those who were coming back.

  But the woman who sat by the window never moved. She had been dead for some time.

  YESTERDAY WAS BEAUTIFUL

  * * *

  First published in Over to You (1945)

  He bent down and rubbed his ankle where it had been sprained with the walking so that he couldn’t see the ankle bone. Then he straightened up and looked around him. He felt in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and he stood in the middle of the street looking around him.

  ‘Dammit, there must be someone here,’ he said aloud, and he felt better when he heard the sound of his voice.

  He walked on, limping, walking on the toe of his injured foot, and when he turned the next corner he saw the sea and the way the road curved around between the ruined houses and went on down the hill to the edge of the water. The sea was calm and black. He could clearly make out the line of hills on the mainland in the distance and he estimated that it was about eight miles away. He bent down again to rub his ankle. ‘God dammit,’ he said. ‘There must be some of them still alive.’ But there was no noise anywhere, and there was a stillness about the buildings and about the whole village which made it seem as though the place had been dead for a thousand years.

  Suddenly he heard a little noise as though someone had moved his feet on the gravel and when he looked around he saw the old man. He was sitting in the shade on a stone beside a water trough, and it seemed strange that he hadn’t seen him before.

  ‘Health to you,’ said the pilot. ‘Ghia sou.’

  He had learned Greek from the people up around Larissa and Yanina.

  The old man looked up slowly, turning his head but not moving his shoulders. He had a greyish-white beard. He had a cloth cap on his head and he wore a shirt which had no collar. It was a grey shirt with thin black stripes. He looked at the pilot and he was like a blind man who looks towards something but does not see.

  ‘Old man, I am glad to see you. Are there no other people in the village?’

  There was no answer.

  The pilot sat down on the edge of the water trough to rest his ankle.

  ‘I am Inglese,’ he said. ‘I am an aviator who has been shot down and jumped out by the parachute. I am Inglese.’

  The old man moved his head slowly up and down. ‘Inglesus,’ he said quietly. ‘You are Inglesus.’

  ‘Yes, I am looking for someone who has a boat. I wish to go back to the mainland.’

  There was a pause, and when he spoke, the old man seemed to be talking in his sleep. ‘They come over all the time,’ he said. ‘The Germanoi they come over all the time.’ The voice had no expression. He looked up into the sky, then he turned and looked behind him in the sky. ‘They will come again today, Inglese. They will come again soon.’ There was no anxiety in his voice. There was no expression whatsoever. ‘I do not understand why they come to us,’ he added.

  The pilot said, ‘Perhaps not today. It is late now. I think they have finished for today.’

  ‘I do not understand why they come to us, Inglese. There is no one here.’

  The pilot said, ‘I am looking for a man who has a boat who can take me across to the mainland. Is there a boat owner now in the village?’

  ‘A boat?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a pause while the question was considered.

  ‘There is such a man.’

  ‘Could I find him? Where does he live?’

  ‘There is a man in the village who owns a boat.’

  ‘Please tell me what is his name?’

  The old man looked up again at the sky. ‘Joannis is the one here who has a boat.’

  ‘Joannis who?’

  ‘Joannis Spirakis,’ and he smiled. The name seemed to have a significance for the old man and he smiled.

  ‘Where does he live?’ the pilot said. ‘I am sorry to be giving you this trouble.’

  ‘Where he lives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old man considered this too. Then he turned and looked down the street towards the sea. ‘Joannis was living in the house nearest to the water. But his house isn’t any more. The Germanoi hit it this morning. It was early and it was still dark. You can see the house isn’t any more. It isn’t any more.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He is living in the house of Antonina Angelou. That house there with the red colour on the window.’ He pointed down the street.

  ‘Thank you very much. I will go and call on the boat owner.’

  ‘Ever since he was a boy,’ the old man went on, ‘Joannis has had a boat. His boat is white with a blue line around the top,’ and he smiled again. ‘But at the moment I do not think he will be in the house. His wife will be there. Anna will be there, with Antonina Angelou. They will be home.’

  ‘Thank you again. I will go and speak to his wife.’

  The pilot got up and started to go down the street, but almost at once the man called after him, ‘Inglese.’

  The pilot turned.

  ‘When you speak to the wife of Joannis – when you speak to Anna … you should remember something.’ He paused, searching for words. His voice wasn’t expression-less any longer and he was looking up at the pilot.

  ‘Her daughter was in the house when the Germanoi came. It is just something that you should remember.’

  The pilot stood on the road waiting.

  ‘Maria. Her name was Maria.’

  ‘I will r