It was nearly dark when Zoe finally arrived home in Maronia. As she wearily dragged her feet up the stone steps leading to the front door, she bitterly regretted her departure. She resolved to return to Samothrace and look for Andreas the following morning. She had listened to her fellow passengers’ reports of the havoc wreaked by the storm with escalating distress, despite Vasilis’s attempts at the port to calm her fears.
She flung her few belongings down by the front door and ran around the house to the balcony, as her father called the long cobbled corridor that led from the back of the house to the sea. She did not stop until she reached the end of the corridor, which was suspended over the gaping cliff.
In the distance, Samothrace glowed in the afternoon sun. The clouds had dispersed, leaving behind a crisp clarity that made the island appear closer than ever. Yet to her, it seemed so very far. She stood there, looking at the homeland of the man she had loved in the space of a few days. She could not wait to go back, to find him.
A tear, sharp as a diamond, stung her cheek. She swallowed hard, but the crushing waves of grief that overwhelmed her refused to be suppressed. Great sobs raked her body as she wept for Andreas.
Present Day
* * *
Leaning on her cane, Zoe stood at the edge of the balcony, eyes turned to the island across the sea. With great difficulty, she had just managed to stand up. Her long white hair fluttered in the light breeze. The wrinkles around her moist eyes had not dimmed the keenness of her gaze, despite the passage of so many years. A wooden gazebo and an armchair stood behind her. She would spend many hours in its shade every day, gazing at the familiar view.
Sophia, the girl who had been looking after Zoe in her old age, watched her every move carefully. Zoe took another shuffling step, reaching the small marble columns that acted as a railing.
Her trembling hands leaned against them. The sun dipped low on the horizon as daylight gently gave way to dusk. She never took her eyes off the island, even when Sophia approached her.
“You’d better sit. I brought a jacket for you; there’s a chill in the air.”
Zoe obeyed, showing no sign of recognizing the girl. She turned her eyes back to the island and raised a frail hand, beckoning Sophia toward her. “Do you know what they call that place?”
Sophia did not reply. She knew how this exchange would go: the old woman would ask the same question every afternoon these past few days and, without waiting for a reply, would add, “It’s Ouranoessa, and one day he will be back.
But this time was different. The old woman sighed, and then added, “The winged goddess will bring him, on a night with a bright full moon …”
Sophia was puzzled. Zoe had never mentioned a winged goddess before, and she could not understand what the old woman meant. She paid no more heed and smiled, admiring the island shores as they blended into the water. She enjoyed spending the afternoons here with her, taking in the sprawling view.
A few minutes later, Sophia stood up. “Come, Zoe. It’s time to go back inside. It’s getting dark, and your grandson will call you.”
She gripped Zoe’s arm to help her get up. Eyes fixed on her Ouranoessa, Zoe did not move. Sophia shook her gently. She placed her fingers on the old woman’s neck and kept them there, hoping for a small sign of life. She pulled them back sharply, stifling a sob. Covering her mouth with her hand, Sophia tried to keep her composure as she ran back inside the house to call for help.
The wind blew Zoe’s hair in the direction of Samothrace. Her lifeless body sat turned toward the island she had loved more than any other place in the world. She had never stopped believing her beloved was somewhere on it, and had waited for him to return until her final breath …
Buenos Aires. Present Day
* * *
The lights in the Teatro Colón dimmed, and the curtain slowly parted to reveal the orchestra, unblinking under the strong spotlights. Although the auditorium was packed from the stalls to the very last seat in the gallery, absolute silence reigned. The conductor, seated before the piano and wearing a red tux that made him stand out from the other musicians, clapped his hands to the rhythm, encouraging everyone attending to join in. Hesitatingly at first, they followed suit, tapping the opening beats of the composition to follow.
The exquisite sounds of Astor Piazzolla's Libertango flowed from the piano keys and, on cue, a woman in a long red dress appeared stage right. Her dance partner waited across the stage. To the first sound of the violin, accompanying the piano in its increasing tempo, the couple met at the center of the stage in a passionate tango. Audience and orchestra clapped to the frantic pace of the music and the swaying couple, who met and parted in a dance of seductive domination.
It was not the first time I was watching a show based on Piazzolla’s music. However, Argentinean rhythms never failed to enchant me. Maybe because they reminded me of our life together before she was lost to me forever.
In those few minutes of swirling red dress and violin strings, I kept my eyes fixed on the stage, recalling her face. At the spectacular finale, with a musician playing the accordion upright and a passionate kiss sealing the dance, everyone rose to their feet in a standing ovation. I knew then it was time to return to reality.
A crackle in my ear, and the orders came through on my headpiece. I turned to the front row of the dress circle, where the man we had been tracking was sitting.
I made eye contact with my colleagues, who had positioned themselves around the stalls. Before the acclamations died down, I swiftly exited to the bottom of the stairs that led to the upper level. There, I met the others. I clipped my pin onto my lapel and opened the door. I paused, signaling to the others to wait. The show continued on stage. A guitarist and an accordionist had just begun to replay the Libertango, slowly, gently, flooding the house with sweet melancholy.
The dancers drifted off to the wings, entwined in each other’s arms, swaying to the soft melody. I did not want anything to disturb this wonderful spectacle before it was completed. Arresting the man a few minutes later would not change anything. Caught up in the atmosphere of the opera house, I longed to hold her in my arms once again, to feel her touch.
Another wave of loud applause swept through the audience at the conclusion of the final piece. It was time to act.
I spoke into the microphone hidden under my shirtsleeve, and we all walked up the dress circle and down to the front row. Startled by our sudden intrusion, people stopped as they left and turned to stare. The other agents held back, letting me reach him first.
I looked down at the fragile relic of the monster who had been responsible for the deaths of thousands during the Second World War. All our evidence indicated that he must be well over ninety years old. For a second, I wondered what the point of arresting him now was, in front of all these people, beside the evident symbolic value of the act.
He had spent many years hiding behind an assumed identity. Up close, it was clear he did not have long to live. We knew he was ill, and that he moved with difficulty. Living under an assumed name, enjoying the protection of high ranking members of various governments, he had managed to go undetected for so long. It had taken DNA identification through a close relative of his to uncover his identity at last.
A much younger woman sat beside him, accompanied by a man we knew was his security detail. I addressed him by his real name, in German. He did not seem to hear me. He only turned toward me, following the startled gaze of his companions. His smile evaporated as he took in my pin and the handcuffs in my hands.
His eyes were sunken in a face crisscrossed with deep wrinkles. Wisps of white hair did not manage to cover his baldness. An old scar split his forehead horizontally in half. I took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Lazlo Werner, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity committed between 1942 and 1945 and leading to the death of thousands.”
Everyone around us fell silent as the former SS officer stood up, aided by his bodyguard. “You speak very go
od German,” he commented in heavily-accented Spanish.
Before I could reply, he proffered his wrists, nodding to my handcuffs. “I am ready …”
I was taken aback by his words. They were the last thing I had expected to hear. For a moment, I faltered. How could he be so well prepared, so calm? I wondered, and the answer came to me in a flash.
He knew we were coming for him today. Someone had alerted him. I knew many war criminals made secret agreements with various agencies, but I had not expected to come across such a case. Anger swelled up inside me, and I grabbed his wrists and snapped on the handcuffs.
“Where are you originally from? You don’t look American,” he said, trying to hide a small grimace of pain.
I was unmoved. “Greece,” I replied, tightening his bonds. This time he could not hide his discomfort.
“Not a bad race … Among the most resistant to our methods,” he cackled. I pulled him hard, wanting to fling him down to the ground. He stumbled, and I propped him up, realizing I was letting my feelings rule my head.
My colleagues were already escorting his two companions outside, so I pulled him by the sleeve, trying to control my temper. I struggled to find the delicate balance between duty and emotions.
Seeing me waver, Jill walked up to me. “I’ll take over,” she said, giving me a look that mixed concern and compassion.
The Nazi turned back toward me. “See you soon,” he said sarcastically, and turned to go.
“Not in the circle of hell waiting for you,” I replied coldly.
He stopped and gave me a look filled with hatred. “Der Weg zur Hölle ist mit guten Vorsätzen gepflastert,” he spat out, and followed Jill, who had been following our exchange with a frown.
I became aware that everyone around me had been watching the whole scene. Some had taken their phones out and were busily recording everything.
Shortly afterward, Jill approached me in the theatre lobby. She announced that the German was on his way to the airport, where a plane would take him to New York. Then, with a sigh, my supervisor took out her cell phone and pulled up a video.
“It’s gone viral,” she said, turning her phone sideways so I could better watch myself manhandle the Nazi in an opera house.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought I had everything under control.” I shrugged apologetically.
“Come on, Andreas. You know how it is. They blow everything out of proportion, just to get more clicks. You have been through so much lately. Maybe it’s time to take a break. You shouldn’t have returned to work so soon after …”
“It’s not that!” I said, wishing I had kept the anger out of my voice.
“What did he say that upset you so?”
“He said a lot. At the end, when I told him he’ll burn in hell, he said ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions’. It was his expression, not just the words. I could tell he doesn’t regret a single thing he did.”
Before Jill could reply, I felt my cell phone vibrate. I apologized and picked it up, noticing just then ten missed calls from my grandmother’s summerhouse in Maronia. I remembered I had promised to call her that day. I would return the call from my hotel, if she was still awake. I was in no state to make a call at this moment. I knew that if she had seen the video I would get a telling-off for the way I had behaved.
We walked to the exit and the waiting car. In the end, I gave in to temptation. I strapped on my seatbelt and dialed the number. Sophia’s voice presaged that something was wrong. As she explained what had happened, I recalled the few times I had been with Zoe at that house. She had passed away peacefully, sitting at her favorite spot under the gazebo, where she spent every afternoon of her retirement. Her balcony to the sky, she used to call it.
I had not seen her since her visit to the US two years ago. I had not realized so much time had passed. Time waits for no one. You think you are controlling your own time, and then one day you suddenly realize it has slowly eaten away moments that you could have experienced but never found time for. It had been Zoe’s choice to return to Maronia and spend her twilight years, as she used to say, there. I made sure we spoke on the phone and Skyped. Jill could tell something was amiss while I spoke, and squeezed my hand in heartfelt condolences when I told her the news.
An hour later, I was at the hotel busily packing my bags, preparing for the long journey to Greece. I would have to return to New York and catch a flight from there. I thought about calling my mother, who had been living in Canada for many years now, but I did not think she would genuinely care about Zoe’s death. We spoke rarely these days, and only when necessary. I had last seen her at my father’s funeral, many years ago. I still remembered how reluctant she had been to attend. The reunion between her and Zoe had not been pleasant. Since I was a boy, my grandmother had taken the role of my mother. I owed her so much, and I hoped she realized how grateful I was for the sacrifices she had made for me.
The knock on the door interrupted my reminiscing. Jill stood in the hallway, and I invited her in. She cut straight to the chase. “Andreas, we are all sorry for your loss. I know you loved your grandmother. I spoke to the director, and he would like you to go on compassionate leave. He mentioned a month.”
I frowned. I did not want to be away for that long. I had lost the two people I loved the most in the space of six months. I could not stand to be alone. Work kept me busy, provided respite from the pain. “It’s the video, isn’t it?” I asked, stuffing toiletries in my bag.
“Look at it as an opportunity. I speak as a friend. You haven’t been the same since Eva passed away. I know you well. I understand. It all happened so fast that you haven’t had time to grieve properly. It might be a good opportunity to rest. To find closure and then return, make a new start.”
I had no wish to get into that conversation. I was still too angry, too sore, and I didn’t want to risk taking it all out on Jill, who was only trying to help. Just then, I realized that someone was waiting for me in New York. Destine the German Shepherd, bequeathed to me by Eva. What would happen to her while I was away? She had been staying at a kennel during my absence, but I would have to make other arrangements for a longer absence. On the other hand, it would be nice to have her with me in Greece. She was so well trained, it wouldn’t be a problem. In any case, I had plenty of time to make up my mind on the flight out of Buenos Aires.
“I think I’ll head back home on the same flight as Werner; otherwise, I risk missing the funeral. I’ll arrive in New York in the morning, and catch an afternoon flight to Athens. I’ll literally be up in the air for the next couple of days.”
“That’s why it’s a good idea to stay there, to rest. I’ll let them know you are traveling with them, but please keep away from our prisoner. You promise?” Jill asked as she stepped outside the room.
Instead of answering, I looked away.
As soon as the door closed behind her, a terrible sense of loneliness came over me. I threw the rest of my stuff in my bag and dashed off to catch my flight. The funeral would be taking place in four days. As if sensing the end was near, Zoe had made a point of constantly reminding me where she wanted to be laid to rest: Samothrace. I would be setting foot on the island that had cast a long shadow over my family for the first time. All my life, I had only ever seen it from afar.
In the airy auditorium of the recently renovated building in the Chora, the crowd filled the seats and lined up against the wall, spilling out into the corridor. Above the main entrance, an inscription greeted the latecomers: Welcome to the Axieros Foundation. Renovated by the Varvis family, in loving memory of Marika and Nicholas Varvis.
A large banner beside the entrance depicted the statue of the Winged Victory and announced: The Mystical Nature of Greek Mythology: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water.
An elegant woman walked to the podium. Her tight, white suit highlighted her shapely body and contrasted with the long black hair that flowed to the small of her back. Admiring glances followed her as she walked.
Someone turned on the microphone, and everyone fell silent. They all turned to the large screen mounted behind the podium. An aerial view of Samothrace came into sharp relief, rising from the sea like an island just spewed by a volcano. The woman tapped the microphone to test the sound, then turned on the tablet she had placed on the podium. Her eyes were the same dark shade as her hair, and she scanned the crowd to make sure she had everyone’s attention.
With an assured voice, she welcomed them. “On behalf of the Axieros Foundation, I welcome you to the Sixth International Philosophical Symposium The Mystical Nature of Greek Mythology: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water. Let us begin with a brief introduction.”
The lights lowered, and a movie started to play on the big screen behind her. The woman noiselessly walked to the front row and took a seat beside an elderly man. To her left, a much younger man leaned and whispered something in her ear, receiving a look of disapproval.
On the screen, a black horse ambled carefree through the archaeological site of Samothrace. The camera followed it in slow motion as it galloped through the woods until it reached a large pool of water. The shot faded to black as the horse lowered his head to drink. Imposing music accompanied footage from the Sanctuary of the Great Gods and from all over Samothrace, as the sites visited alternated while a voiceover in English shared information on all the latest discoveries. The movie then moved on to the excavations that had taken place at the Sanctuary since the Second World War. Black and white pictures of mostly American archaeologists flickered across the screen, accompanying a timeline of all the significant discoveries.
The entire last part of the screening was dedicated to the ancient religion of the Cabeiri and their initiation rites. It ended with a night shot of a great bonfire, around which a large group of men and women stood, all dressed in white. The credits rolled as the camera zoomed in on the full moon hanging above the flames, zooming closer and closer until its bright yellow light filled the screen and invaded the auditorium.
Dominion of the Moon Page 15
