War Games by Audrey Couloumbis Page B

“Papa heard a rumor the Germans killed them. Shot them dead in the road.”
    Stavros nodded.
    Petros said, “That can’t be true. The Germans and the Italians are on the same side.”
    Stavros said, “I asked my grandmother what she thought of this. She told me that in a fight with the Italians, there are rumors. In a fight with the Germans, there are only losses.”
    Petros and Elia both sat back slightly. Petros felt a chill between his shoulder blades—this was why
he
sat back.
    Stavros shrugged. “She’s only an old grandmother talking.”
    The boys sat silent. That Stavros would attempt to make less of Auntie’s opinion gave that much more weight to it. Together they watched the women hurrying through the marketplace, carrying eggs or tomatoes in boxes, or chickens in cages.
    Some old women were bent double with the weight of their produce. None of them smiled or talked to each other as they had done when the Italian soldiers were here.
    “We weren’t so afraid of the Italians,” Stavros said. “Their eyes told us always where we stood. That one’s eyes told me nothing.”
    Petros didn’t need to ask whom Stavros meant by
that one
. It was very unlike Stavros to say he’d been frightened, even for a heartbeat.
    When Petros got home, he found Zola weeding near the gate so he could stop there, away from everyone else. “It was different this time,” Petros said, crushing a weed under his shoe.
    “Different?”
    “The Italians are gone.”
    Zola didn’t look impressed. “So it’s the Germans instead.”
    “They’re our enemy.”
    “We’re at war.”
    “Differently,” Petros said. “They didn’t stop us, but they didn’t smile at the game either. These soldiers talk to no one but among themselves.”
    Zola said nothing. Petros left him there, but later, in their room, he said, “I think you were wise to send this message out now. But when the commander comes—”
    “We’ll use our wits,” Zola said.
    The words Petros needed hadn’t come to him. “This is serious business we’re up to,” he said.
    “We must do our part,” Zola whispered. “This is for the war effort.”
    “Those are only words you’ve heard on the radio,” Petros said. “Papa’s put the radio in the cellar. Perhaps we should stop.”
    “Stop what?” Papa said, stepping inside their room. The room got so quiet Petros thought Papa was the only one still breathing.
    “Talking about the radio,” Zola said in a way that nearly fooled Petros into believing him.
    “The Germans are here,” Papa said, looking hard at Zola. “Ours is the only battle that matters now.”
    Zola said, “Yes, Papa.”
    Papa went on down the hall to his bedroom. Petros steeled himself for the sneering look he expected from Zola, a look that meant little brothers were as easily frightened as mice. But in Zola’s eyes there was only determination.
    “History is being made all around us,” Zola said in a whisper because they didn’t hear Papa’s door close. “Don’t you want to be part of history?”
    “I want to be part of the future.”
    “That too,” Zola said. “What good is history if you aren’t around to enjoy it?”
    “Exactly,” Petros said. “We must remember the danger.”
    “That you must,” Zola said, and then he grinned. “Papa will kill us if you get caught.”
    “He’ll kill you first,” Petros said, “because you’re older and should know better.”

chapter 21
    The next morning, Mama sent Petros out to pick the zucchini. He didn’t like to do it. These plants spread their stems like the arms on an octopus, and the prickly vines made itchy work for him. But he was there to see Papa and Elia’s father going down the road toward the village.
    Elia came across the road. “Your father offered to trade your farm for ours.”
    “That wouldn’t be fair,” Petros said, and then looked away when Elia’s face flushed red.
    He didn’t mean to hurt Elia, but it was true. The Lemos family’s farm, while