Free War Games by Audrey Couloumbis

made of sand. Excitement thrummed in his veins.
    The soldier gave a shout.

chapter 17
    Petros gathered his feet under him but didn’t try to run. He knew the names of some things in German and felt certain the German had shouted something about the truck, Papa’s truck.
    He hid while the first German was joined by another, along with Papa, who told them he used the truck to take his vegetables to market. He told them twice, because the interpreter had stayed at the house and the soldiers didn’t understand. All of them walked back as Papa repeated his remarks about the truck.
    Petros stayed there under the arbor, thinking about the soldiers and their tone of voice, hard and cold. Papa made his voice not afraid exactly, but hesitant as he pretended not to understand the soldiers, either.
    Petros knew Papa felt small facing the soldiers and their cold manner. It bothered him. Papa could be as bossy as the soldiers, but his voice never made Petros feel small.
    He heard the jeep start. Petros got up, reaching the driveway in time to see the Germans leaving, five of them looking straight ahead like the tiny carved figures in the toy trucks he’d buried.
    Sophie, Mama, and Papa were all on the veranda. He could hear their voices. Zola was just coming into the kitchen as Petros stepped in through the back. “Did you take my notes?” Zola whispered.
    Petros saw the awful white of his brother’s face and knew he was scared. He lifted the scraps bucket.
    Zola snatched the bucket away, his fright turning suddenly into anger. Petros could hardly believe it and would have said so, only everyone started coming inside and the moment to fight was gone. Old Mario, coming from the roof, was shouting curses on the German army as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
    “How can we live with a stranger in the house?” Mama clapped a hand to her forehead. “A German officer!”
    “Papa, we are—” Zola was shouting. Whatever else he said couldn’t be understood through everyone else’s voices, but Petros gathered it had to do with going into town.
    “Enough!” Papa said with a fast motion of his hands that suggested parting the waves. Mama crossed her arms.
    Old Mario said, “Soldiers stopped at Lemos’s house at the same time. There were four trucks that drove on, then another, five in all. One remains down the road at Omeros’s.”
    “I want to phone Lemos,” Papa said, speaking of Elia’s grandfather.
    “Be careful what you say,” Old Mario said. “Someone may be listening in from Omeros’s house.”
    Many times Mama believed the Omeros grandmotherlistened in on the party line, hoping to hear gossip. Lately Papa worried that gossip wasn’t all she listened for.
    Papa said, “We’ll say only the things everyone else is saying. Then we make the parlor ready.” He picked up the telephone to dial.
    Mama moved to the sink to wash dishes, working noisily, roughly.
    Papa said to Lemos, “Are you well?” and then listened.
    Sophie tried to look into the scraps bucket. Zola yanked it away. But it was Petros he punched in the shoulder. “Don’t you know better than to touch my things?” he whispered fiercely.
    Petros ignored the hit. “Would you rather the soldiers touched them?” he said.
    “You.” Sophie poked Petros with a sharp fingernail. “What were you up to?”
    Zola answered for him. “Nothing.”
    “No fighting,” Mama said. “Make yourselves useful.”
    “I’m feeding the pig,” Zola said. He strode out, slamming the bucket against the doorway. Mama shouted at him, but Papa hissed at her to be quiet, and Zola was forgotten.
    Petros stood rigid and swore to himself he would never tell where he’d hidden the paper flag. Zola could twist his arm and bend his little finger back, and Petros would never tell.
    Papa said, “Good.” He hung up and asked Mama, “Now what is it?”
    Mama shrugged. “Boys.”
    “I think we’re the only ones to be honored with a house-guest,” Papa said heavily. He