War Games

by Couloumbis, Audrey; Couloumbis, Akila

• ISBN13: 9780375856297
• ISBN10: 0375856293
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2011-03-22
• Publisher: Yearling

Summary

1941. Greece. For 12-year-old Petros, World War II feels far away. But when the Germans invade Greece, the war is suddenly impossibly close. Overnight, neighbors become enemies. People begin to keep secrets (Petros's family most of all). And for the first time, Petros has the chance to prove himself to his older brother, Zola. Soon what were once just boys' games become matters of life and death as Petros and Zola each wonder if, like their Resistance fighter cousin, they too can make a difference. Based on the true story of Akila Couloumbis's wartime boyhood, Newbery Honor winner Audrey Couloumbis, writing with her husband Akila, explores what it was like coming of age in Nazi occupied Greece, and tells a story of family, friendship, and unlikely heroes.

Author Biography

AUDREY COULOUMBIS' first book for children, Getting Near to Baby, won the  Newbery Honor in 2000. Audrey is also the author of several other highly acclaimed books for young readers including The Misadventures of Maude March, which was named a Junior Library Guild Selection, a Booksense 76 Pick, a New York Public Library 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing, and a National Parenting Publications Gold Award Winner.

AKILA COULOUMBIS was born in New York and spent his childhood in Greece. During World War II, German officers boarded in the family's parlor. Akila's stories from that time led him to collaborate with Audrey on this book. Akila and Audrey were married for 42 years and have two grown children.

Excerpts

chapter 1

“I can hit the next three birds we see,” Zola said.

Petros shrugged. His older brother liked to make a contest of things.

They sat on a rock wall in the cooling green shade of the arbor, each with a small pile of stones beside his right hand. Above them, the weight of the grapevines rested on thick beams, the leaves trembling with the activity of so many small birds they could not be counted.

Zola made a confident sound with his breath and said again, “I can shoot three birds without missing.”

“Maybe you can,” Petros said, in a way that meant and maybe you can’t. Zola had just turned fifteen the day before Easter, making this the first of several unbearable months during which he would be three years older than Petros, instead of only two.

“If I do,” Zola said, “you do my chores for three days.”

A week ago, Zola made a parachute for his little white dog, using a basket and a small tablecloth. Petros told his brother it was a stupid idea. The dog would have nothing to do with it either.

Still determined, Zola had carried their sister’s rickety old cat up to the flat rooftop, where there was always a strong breeze. He put the cat in the basket and threw her off the house. The parachute worked. If the basket didn’t precisely float to the ground, it didn’t fall fast.

Best, it landed in a bush and the cat wasn’t hurt.

Worst, the basket landed in the bush in front of the window where Mama stood, looking out. Zola’s chores were doubled to keep him busy. Also, the cat scratched him. Stupid idea.

Now Petros scooped up a few stones and let them fall, tik, tik, tik. “Three days is too many.”

“Three birds.” Zola poked him with an elbow. “Three in a row.”

Petros wanted to poke him back but didn’t. “If you can do it, I can do it.”

“Then why haven’t you?” Zola asked.

“I never thought of it, that’s why.” If ever he had another choice of big brother, Petros decided, he would pick one less irritating.

Zola held his slingshot straight out and pulled back on the stone. He waited, his eyes searching for a target. The doves were big and slow. But they were Mama’s. She’d be angry if her birds got hurt.

They didn’t like to hit the many-colored finches, their favorites. And Zola dared not hit a swallow. A red blotch at the swallows’ throats was said to be a drop of the blood of Christ. Extremely bad luck came to anyone who hurt one of these birds.

That left only one worthy target. Sparrows were sharp-eyed and smart, and therefore nervous. Small and fast, they were hard to hit.

A bird moved through the tangle of vines. Zola let his stone fly, shooting through a space between the leaves. The bird dropped to the ground without a flutter.

“A lucky shot,” Petros said.

“An excellent shot,” Zola said, setting another stone.

“Excellent luck,” Petros argued. To send a stone through the knotted vines could be nothing else. Even so, Petros admired the shot.

Zola said, “I could do it again if a bird would land there.” Petros rolled his eyes. Of all the older brothers he knew, Zola was the worst.

A sparrow touched down where a vine hung below the arbor. The bird fell without waking Zola’s dog, only a few feet away. An ordinary shot, and Zola didn’t brag.

Again, the wait, watching. A careless target landed on a branch nearby. Zola got his third bird. “Ya-ha,” he shouted. “Three days!”

“No,” Petros said. “That was your bet. Here’s mine: I’ll kill two birds with one stone. Then you’ll do my chores.”

“For one morning,” Zola said ag