by Alan Furst
Two days later, he had his weekly meeting with the British travel writer, not long resident in the city, called Escovil. They met, as usual, in one of the old Byzantine churches, and there the commissionaire passed along bits of gossip about the city and various doings at the hotel-Escovil was always curious about foreign guests. For this the commissionaire was paid a small stipend, money which, given his meagre salary, made all the difference in the way he lived.
Was it wrong? He didn’t find it so. He would never have given information to a German, or even a Frenchman, but the British: that was another story. They had been good friends to Greece, as far back as the nineteenth century when the great English poet, Lordos Vyronos himself, Lord Byron, had come to fight in their wars of independence; and the British had fought and died in the hills of Macedonia, in 1917, where they’d faced the Bulgarian army.
That afternoon, the commissionare told the travel writer about the aristocratic German lady and her difficult passage to Salonika. Was she, Escovil wanted to know, the only one? No, there were a few others, and, he’d heard, more were expected. And a good thing too. In these times of war, people didn’t travel so often, and there were too many empty rooms at the hotel. And these rooms were paid for in full, promptly, by the well-regarded police official himself, Constantine Zannis, from an old Salonika family.
Escape line!
Francis Escovil hurried back to the room he kept at the Pension Bastasini, where his predecessor in Salonika, Roxanne Brown, had stayed. There he wrote a report of his contact with the commissionaire, then drove his car out to a house on the Chalkidiki peninsula, where his assistant encrypted the message and sent it on to London by wireless/telegraph.
The following night, the Secret Intelligence Service wired back. And very excited they were! Could he get at least one name? One true name? There had been, for some years, contact with anti-Nazi Germans in Berlin: intellectuals, lawyers, Communist workers, and aristocrats; some Jewish, some not. Were the people using the escape line from that group? Or another, that they didn’t know about? Were “the friends”-operatives of the Jewish agencies in Palestine-involved? Could this policeman Zannis be recruited? Bribed? Coerced? Intimidated? Find out more! Most urgent!
Escovil was, despite himself, almost amused. Hit a tender spot, have I? It reminded him of something he’d heard about Churchill, who, excited by some new discovery, would head his minutes, memoranda, with the phrase Action this day. Escovil’s assistant was less amused; the five-digit groups of numbers took a long time to decrypt. “The hell have you done?” he grumbled. To the fishing village outside the cottage, he was known as Plato, a deaf-mute taken to be Escovil’s intimate companion. In fact his name was Geary, formerly a corporal in the Irish Guards and a famous pub brawler. Once, to emphasize the nature of the companionship, Escovil had taken his hand as they walked through the village. This was a practice common enough between any and all Greek men, but Geary didn’t like it and said, in an undertone, “Let go me fookin’ hand, you damned poofter.” To Escovil, a Greek woman radio operator would have been a more credible arrangement, but there weren’t any such to be found, so “Plato” had to serve.
In any event, the message radioed back to London wasn’t so long. He would try to learn a name. Zannis could be asked to help, but any sort of pressure wouldn’t work.
On 18 January, a hand-carried envelope reached Zannis at his office. The message within was typewritten: Colonel Simonides, of the Royal Hellenic Army General Staff, requested his presence at a meeting of “certain residents of Salonika” at a house in the officers’ quarters of the army base, east of the city. The meeting was to take place the following day, at six in the evening, and this invitation was, Zannis realized as he reread it, very close to an order. He took a taxi to the base, where he had to show his identity papers to a lieutenant, list in hand, at the guardhouse by the gate. He was then escorted to the residence of, apparently, a senior officer, with fine though well-worn furnishings. On entering a large parlor, Zannis saw that many of the guests had preceded him, to what looked like a social gathering: a number of Salonika’s rich and powerful, some with their wives; the city’s chief rabbi was there, as was Spiraki, head of the local State Security Bureau; and Vangelis, who waved to him from across the room. In one corner, a professor at the university was talking to a well-regarded journalist. There were, Zannis estimated, close to fifty people in the crowded room, sitting, standing, and drinking coffee, available at a table to one side of the doorway.
A uniformed officer-harsh, slightly reddened face, black mustache-tapped a spoon on a coffee cup to get their attention. As Zannis looked over the crowd he saw, obscured by two large guests, a flash of golden hair. Was Vasilou there? Of course, he would be. So then, was that who he thought it was? Could it be? His heart raced, and he started to move to a position where he could get a better view.
But then, the officer cleared his throat and said, “Citizens of Salonika, allow me to introduce myself, I am Colonel Simonides, and the first thing I would ask is that you will please consider this a private meeting, not a subject for gossip. Not with associates, or even friends. We-that is, the General Staff of the army-have chosen you carefully. You are crucial to the way our city works; you are crucial, in our opinion, to Greece itself.
“Two further things I would ask: please do not question me when I’m done speaking. For reasons ranging from the unknown future to state security, I won’t be able to answer. And, second, please don’t seek us out later and ask for our assistance. If this information seems useful and you wish to act on it, you’ll do so as you see fit. And if you must share this information, you may do that as well-but choose carefully who you tell and don’t say where it came from. Do I have your agreement?” He looked around the room, all were silent, their faces deadly serious. Zannis watched as the golden hair moved slightly, then was still.
“Very well,” the colonel said, finality in his voice. “Our war with Italy continues, we are certainly winning, though for the moment we’ve reached stalemate in central Albania, and we anticipate an Italian counteroffensive in the spring. No matter, we’ll drive them back. And I know you will agree that the very last word that can describe the Greek armed services, or indeed almost any Greek, is defeatist.” Again he looked around the room, as though to challenge anyone who might, even privately, contradict this assertion. Then, after a pause, a muscle ticked in his cheek and he said, “However …”
What followed was known, in military terminology, as a “strategic appreciation,” though phrased for a civilian audience and stripped of any reference that might reveal secret information. Much of what Simonides said was known to the people in the room. Or, rather, it was believed to be true. Roumania and Hungary had signed treaties with Germany; Yugoslavia and Bulgaria had so far refused to do so. So far. The Greek General Staff had undertaken studies-a nice word for it, Zannis thought-indicating that, with the April thaw in the Balkans, this situation would change and, once the Wehrmacht moved across the Yugoslav and Bulgarian borders, Greece would be next. Metaxas, as premier of Greece, would not give way under pressure, so there would be war with Germany. “We,” the colonel said, “will fight hard, and the British will fight by our side, but, when a nation of seventy-five million goes to war with a nation of eight million, the outcome will not long be in question. And what we are suggesting tonight is that you prepare yourselves for that eventuality.”
Simonides paused and let that sink in. “In time, Hitler will be defeated, after, we calculate, a long and difficult war. Here there will be occupation, resistance, and insurgency, and then, when the war is over, Greece will have to, once again, as we did after we drove out the Turks, restore itself as a state. On that day, we judge that the people in this room will be of significant help, will play an important role in the recovery. So we want you alive. And, by the way, you might give some thought to the fact that the Germans will soon learn who you are. People just like yourselves have been murdered in Poland-an attempt to
behead potential resistance-and we don’t want you to share that fate.”
After a moment, he went on. “As to what you may do, and how you do it, that’s clearly up to you. We invite you here tonight to tell you only that it is not too soon to begin preparation. That is, I fear, the only way you can secure the safety of yourselves and your immediate families.” He paused, then said, “Thank you for attending this meeting,” turned on his heel, and left the room.
For a time, nobody said a word. Then the man standing next to Zannis turned to him and introduced himself. Mid-fifties, eyeglasses, balding, nobody who would stand out in a crowd. “You’re Costa Zannis, aren’t you?” he said. “From the police department.”
“I am. And what is it that you do in Salonika?”
“I’m the traffic manager for the railroads. What do you make of all this?”
“I’m not sure. ‘Get out while you can’? Something like that.”
“And will you?”
“No, I’ll stay. And you?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. Where would I go?” He shrugged, said he thought he’d get himself a coffee, and headed for the table by the door.
Zannis again searched the room. Now he was rewarded! Demetria Vasilou was standing in back of a sofa, in conversation with an older woman. She was listening with apparent interest but then, just for a moment, she turned toward him, and smiled. Not the smile of an actress, just the briefest acknowledgment that she was aware of him, that she knew who he was, that she remembered him. Then she returned to the conversation. She wore, that night, an ice-blue blouse, again with a pearl necklace, and a soft, gray wool skirt, not exactly snug, but tight enough to reveal her shape. Now she began to talk to the woman opposite her, not frivolous but making some kind of point. She folded her arms above her waist and leaned backward, so that the top edge of the sofa pressed into the curve of her ample derriere, for one second, then another. As she straightened up, and the woman in front of her began to speak, she glanced at him again and, just for an instant, their eyes met.
His mind raced. Had he seen what he thought he’d seen? Did it mean what he thought it meant? I want you. No, no, impossible. Tired of standing, she’d simply taken a moment to lean on a sofa, and desire had led him to believe it was a gesture of seduction. But a voice from within knew better. A signal. Not overt, but not subtle either. That’s the way women do things. Don’t they? Perhaps? He stared at her; he couldn’t stop. Her profile was like, like …Now he remembered that Tasia had called her “the goddess,” as though people spoke of her in that way. An irony? Not to him. Well, enough, just go over there and talk to her. Be brave!
His foot never moved. The traffic manager materialized in front of him with two cups of coffee. Extending one of the cups he said, “I thought you might like a coffee.”
Zannis couldn’t escape. Heartsick, he watched as Vasilou appeared, took Demetria’s arm, and led his prize away.
22 January.
His letter confirming yet another arrival in Salonika crossed Emilia Krebs’s letter to the Royale Garment Company. Two men would be setting out from Berlin on the twenty-ninth, papers in the names of Brandt and Wald; both were university professors. This time, for a recognition signal, Brandt, who wore a trimmed beard, would carry a pair of gloves in his left hand. After Zannis had informed her of the difficulty at the Subotica border station, the refugees now went west, from Budapest to Zagreb, then back east to Novi Sad, and Belgrade. This deviation added another day to the journey, and Zannis could only hope they were making the right choice. Dipping his pen in the Panadon solution, he confirmed that day’s arrival and the departure of three refugees to Turkey. The following day, in the office, he sent teletype messages to Pavlic in Zagreb and Gustav Husar’s detective in Budapest. Wanted for questioning by the Salonika police: one WALD, one BRANDT, who wears a trimmed beard and has been known to carry a pair of gloves in his left hand. Believed to be arriving-then the dates-“by excursion steamer” to Budapest, “by express rail” to Zagreb. When the teletype messages had been confirmed, he returned to his desk. On a pad he printed Belgrade/Skoplje? Based on his questioning of the refugees at the Tobacco Hotel, he’d discovered that Emilia Krebs had an operative riding that train. He drew a box around what he’d written and went back over it, darkening the line. Only eye contact, from what the refugees said, but more than once-two or three times. “He was just making sure we were safe.” Only some of the refugees said it, and not the Gruens. Still, the ones who did report the man also said that he’d appeared on the platform at Skoplje. Once more, Zannis’s pencil traced the box. He would write again, to the Kalcher und Krohn attorneys, that night. He had to ask her. Who was it? Why hadn’t she told him? Because, God forbid, she might not know.
Later that morning he invited Gabi Saltiel to lunch. They left early-Smyrna Betrayed was always crowded-and took the most private table, in the corner. That day the taverna had a freshly caught octopus. A tentacle was hung from a hook in the kitchen ceiling, the customer would proceed to the kitchen, indicate the desired width of the portion, and one of the cooks would slice it off with a fearsomely sharp fish knife. Zannis didn’t much care for the knife, he’d too often seen what it could do as a weapon, back when he’d been a detective.
While they waited for their lunch-the slice, grilled over coals, turned sweet and was something like lobster-they lit cigarettes and drank ouzo.
“How are things at home?” Zannis said.
“As usual, nothing too exciting.” Saltiel paused, then said, “Thank heaven.” He stopped there and waited; he sensed Zannis had something he wanted to discuss.
“Gabi,” Zannis said. “I think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to talk about the future.”
Saltiel waited, what now?
“I’ve begun to hear things about the Germans. Maybe going into Bulgaria.”
“Real things? Or just … talk?”
“Real things.”
Saltiel’s face tightened. “Bad news for us, chief, if that’s true, because it’s our turn next.”
Zannis agreed. “What would you want to do, if that happened? Because-well, if the Germans take the city, they’ll be interested in our office.”
“They know about us?”
“I think we’d better assume they do. And, if they do, once things quiet down they’ll come calling. Polite at first, then not.”
“Costa?” Saltiel leaned back in his chair. “What are you saying?”
“Make plans, Gabi. Then get out.” After a moment he added, “Even if you didn’t work for the office you ought to think about it. Because, for the Jews-”
“I know,” Saltiel said. “We’re all talking about it. Talking and talking.” They were silent for a time, then Saltiel forced his attention back to the conversation. “So, get out. When, next week?”
“If the Wehrmacht moves across the Danube, from Roumania to Bulgaria …”
“It’s very hard to think about this, Costa,” Saltiel said, his tone faintly irritated. “To leave the place where you’ve always lived because something may happen later.” He shook his head. “Have you talked to Sibylla?”
“Not yet. I will.”
Saltiel thought for a time, then said, “How long will it take, this, this potential German advance? Not a lot of bridges over the Danube, you know; those countries don’t like each other.”
“I don’t know,” Zannis said. “Days. Not weeks.”
“Will they use the railroad bridge, at Vidin?”
“They could use pontoon bridges.”
“Here comes the waiter,” Saltiel said, stubbing out his cigarette emphatically.
They ate for a time, dutifully, Zannis telling himself that if he didn’t eat something he’d be hungry later. Then Saltiel said, “Oh, by the way, did you hear about the man in the synagogue-”
Zannis looked up, knife and fork suspended above his plate. Was this a joke?
“-photographing books?”
“What?”
“You know that the synagogues in Salonika are famous for their sacred texts: ancient books, Talmuds, Torahs, five, six hundred years old. Very valuable, if anybody ever sold anything like that. So last week, the rabbi at the synagogue on Athonos Street left his eyeglasses in his office, then, late that night he went back to get them and discovered some guy, using a desk lamp, had some of the books out and was taking photographs.”
“Did the man taking photographs say anything?”
“He ran. The rabbi is eighty years old, he couldn’t chase him. Maybe he yelled at him, I don’t know. Then he talked to two or three rabbis at other synagogues, and one of them said he’d found his books in the wrong order, though he didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
Zannis put his knife and fork down on his plate, so much for lunch. “Nothing stolen,” he said.
“No. Photographed.”
“Which means,” Zannis said slowly, “somebody is taking an inventory, in order to know what to steal.” He paused, then added, “At some time in the future.”
The waiter noticed that Zannis wasn’t eating his lunch and walked over to the table. “Everything all right, gentlemen?”
Zannis stared at him. I’ve had enough of tentacles for one day. “It’s just,” Zannis said, “I’m not hungry.”
As they walked back toward the Via Egnatia, they passed Sami Pal, sharp as ever, a red carnation boutonniere in the buttonhole of his jacket, standing in the doorway of a tobacco shop. “Good afternoon, captain,” he said.
