War Games by Audrey Couloumbis Page A

too big for Zola right then. No one was making shoes. But she often gave away a cabbage and a couple of potatoes, because she didn’t like people to go empty-handed.
    Only a day later, it became more difficult. People didn’t want money. They needed eggs and cheese. They were glad to get bread. It was widely agreed the Basilis sisters were selling cardboard disguised as bread. For a pair of boots for Papa, worn and very dirty, Mama gave up a young chicken and felt she’d made an even trade.
    Papa looked at the boots and said, “I hope it was an old chicken.”
    “These boots will last longer than the chicken,” she said back to Papa. “They just aren’t as pretty.”
    Papa and Old Mario strung goat bells on a rope all along the top of the rock wall. The wall was shoulder-high to Papa, but a man could climb over it. Now one touch on the rope set the whole place to ringing.

chapter 20
    The next afternoon, Petros, Elia, and Stavros worked again as a team. Right away, they saw how much the village was changed.
    There were only a few Germans to be seen, sitting in trucks or standing in the school building doorways. But the village was in hiding. Old men didn’t sit in their gardens. Gates were closed, shutters pulled tight at windows.
    Petros, Elia, and Stavros threw the sand ball as before, dropping notes into boots left at the edge of the garden, the chair beside a door, a window box. They scrambled up and down a short flight of steps and dropped a note into a flowerpot. Their voices rang shrill with nerves.
    Twice Elia missed the ball, throwing off the rhythm. The first time the game halted for a split second, as Petros stopped cold in shock. Then Stavros laughed in a loud jeering way. Elia jeered back.
    They looked like they were fighting among themselves. If they drew any attention, none of it would be curiosity. Petros wished Zola had seen how quickly Stavros saved the moment.And how quickly Elia understood. He threw the ball to Petros and the game went on.
    Only one message was left on a gravel walk as if the paper had fallen out of their pockets. This was when Stavros ran around a corner and nearly slammed into a German soldier.
    Stavros halted just in time but remained there, stock-still, head down. Petros and Elia stopped too, panting from the running, uncertain what to do. This soldier looked young, but hardened somehow. The Italians were rowdy in comparison, either joking or full of temper.
    It was then Petros realized there were no Italians on the streets. Not a single one. The Italians were on the German side in this war. Where had those soldiers gone?
    Stavros stepped back, still looking at the ground, so the soldier could walk on. When he did, Stavros walked a few steps away from the young soldier before he skipped a step or two. Petros saw the note drop.
    Stavros ran on as if this foolish bravery didn’t risk all their lives.
    Petros wanted to hit him but he also enjoyed his cousin’s foolish courage. Love and pride ran fast through veins, faster by far than blood, Petros discovered, laughing with the thrill of it.
    “Ya ha rah,” Stavros shouted, his voice strong and deep. Petros threw him the sand ball.
    Stavros caught it and tossed it to Elia, who didn’t miss as Petros flicked a note through the iron fencing of a garden. Anold man stepped out from his veranda, giving Petros a fright. It could just as easily have been a soldier he hadn’t noticed.
    The old man bent at the waist to put his cigarette out. Petros thought he grabbed the note as he straightened up. Zola was right, he realized. People had taken notice of these messages. But he pushed the thought away, catching the sand ball and tossing it to Stavros.
    When they were done, and sitting on a curbstone like boys who’d grown tired of a game, Petros said to Stavros in a low voice, “Where are the Italians?”
    “Gone,” Stavros said. “The Germans sent them away. All in one night. They were gone by morning. I saw it.”
    Elia said,