War Games by Audrey Couloumbis

carried bundles in the basket in front and a bedroll on the back fender. The parents were also bundled. This family had lived in Amphissa as long as Petros. Their Greek was excellent.
    “Why is everyone going now? Why not sooner?” Stavros asked.
    “We thought Amphissa would remain safe,” Mr. Walker said without stopping. He had something to do with old relics, always digging, then sitting outside brushing away the dirt. His face was browned, his hair as light as any German’s.
    Mrs. Walker said, “What’s here? No boats, no bridges. Who thought of the mountains?”
    Papa, Petros thought. Papa knew right away their armywould hide in the mountains. It gave him a little thrill, remembering. But also a nagging feeling.
    Mr. Walker said, “Petros, is your family staying?”
    The concern on the Englishman’s face bothered Petros. Elia too, because he said, “They’ve hidden everything not Greek.”
    “Good luck to you,” Mr. Walker said, hurrying his family along.
    Fifi followed them a little way, nibbling on the corner of Mr. Walker’s pack. “Where can they go?” Elia said.
    “With enough money, away,” Stavros said.
    Petros said, “They can’t go north where the Germans are. Zola says in Crete people book passage to Egypt. From there, they hope to get home.”
    “Crete will sink with the weight of so many people,” Stavros said, his eyebrows drawn together. “I’m going home.”
    Petros thought his cousin had begun to worry about his mother and brother. He wouldn’t even know when they’d reached safety.
    The parade slowed to a trickle of passersby as night fell and Fifi curled up at the gate to sleep. Twice more Petros was asked when he would go. Elia spoke on his behalf, saying, “He’s Greek.”
    The more Elia made this claim, the less Greek Petros felt.
    When Elia was called home later in the evening, Petros wondered what fate had befallen Zola. He found his brother in their room and learned why he’d wanted the berries.

chapter 13
    The room smelled of rebellion.
    The dog sat on Petros’s bed, watching Zola.
    Zola didn’t hear Petros coming. He nearly tipped over the ink bottle. “Shah! Don’t you know to make a little noise when you come in?”
    Zola had mashed the berries. He dipped his pen in the juice and wrote. Petros said, “Why not just use ink?”
    “Did you see the stains on Lambros’s fingers? Mulberry juice. The fruit sustained him. This ink is symbolic.”
    Petros rolled his eyes. A romantic, Mama said, when his brother got like this. Petros asked, “What will you do with it?”
    “I can print secret messages,” Zola said.
    This sounded interesting. However, Petros didn’t want to say so. He sat down on the end of his bed, where Zola’s dog shouldn’t have been. Both were patient as Zola wrote a word, dipped his pen, and wrote another.
    Zola looked at Petros from the corner of his eye. “The berries don’t make as much juice as I thought.”
    Petros ignored that. Zola had found some clean whitepaper that looked very good with mulberry juice on it. “Where did you get such paper?”
    Zola held out the finished product. It said
Germans lose battle to British in North Africa
. The dog looked impressed, but Petros said, “Everyone knows this already.”
    “Already people want war news,” Zola said. “We can tell it.”
    “We don’t listen to the radio anymore,” Petros pointed out.
    “Papa will, once the Germans set up camp and settle in like the Italians,” Zola said, going back to writing as he talked. “He hid the radio, he didn’t bury it. Besides, this is only the first message.”
    Petros didn’t care for Zola’s know-it-all tone. “Even a first message should tell people something they don’t already know,” he said. “The war could be over before we can have the radio back.”
    “Will a man ask his neighbor on one side, who’s a German sympathizer, what he’s heard?” Zola asked him. “Or will he go to the neighbor on his other side, the one