by Alan Furst
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.
"Sami," Zannis said.
As they went around the corner, Saltiel said, "Ah, the slick Sami Pal. You're a captain, now?"
"He thinks so."
"There are things you don't tell me, chief."
"There are. And I may have to, one of these days. In the meantime, Turkish visas. What will you need?"
Saltiel turned his head toward Zannis and raised an eyebrow. "What have you been doing, Costa?"
"Private business. How many?"
It took Saltiel a while. "Strange, you never count your family," he said. "There are, with the grandkids, ten of us. Is it possible that you have a way of getting ten Turkish visas?"
"Yes."
"What will this cost?"
"I'll worry about that."
Almost to himself, Saltiel said, "How in God's name would I ever make a living in Turkey?"
"When the Wehrmacht reaches the Macedonian border, something will occur to you."
Saltiel thought for a time. "Don't do anything right away, I have to talk this out with the family. Is there a time limit?"
Zannis thought about that, then said, "Not right now."
*
Back in the office, Zannis grabbed the telephone and called Vangelis, repeating Saltiel's story, asking what could be done. "Not much," Vangelis said. "I assume they lock the synagogue doors. Beyond that, I don't know."
"This could be coming out of the German legation."
"I suppose," Vangelis said. "It's possible."
"You understand what it means?"
"Of course I do." Vangelis's voice was sharp. "The Nazis have some kind of commission for the study of Jewish culture and religion, maybe it's them. They steal everywhere else, why not here?"
"What if I interviewed the consul? Asked him about it?"
"Von Kragen? He'd just tell you, politely, to go to hell."
"What about Spiraki?"
"No, he wouldn't be interested."
"Then what?"
"Leave it alone, Costa. Go break your balls on something else."
Zannis, looking out the office window, found himself going back over his conversation with Saltiel. Ten visas. He knew that the more visas he requested, the harder Madam Urglu would press him: tell me something. And then, how much money did he have left? Enough, he thought, though if Emilia Krebs's operation went on for months, the bribes and the payments to Gustav Husar would deplete his secret bank account. Then he'd have to contact Vasilou. Did he have the telephone number? He thumbed through his card index, yes, there it was, the office on the waterfront, the number at home. The number at home.
The number at home.
There were reasons he shouldn't. One reason: if Vasilou found out ... But he won't find out. And, if he did, there were other wealthy men in the city, including wealthy Jews, who might be the best people to approach. One hand resting on the phone, Zannis fought it out with himself but the outcome was never really in doubt. In his imagination, Demetria once again pressed herself against the back of the sofa. Look what I have for you. That's what she meant. And then? Then this: soon enough the world was going to end, the world he knew, and his life--he wasn't going to run away--would end with it. So, to love one last time before that day comes ...
He dialed the number.
Made a mistake? A man answered and said, "Plakos here."
Tried again. Now, a woman's voice: "The Vasilou residence."
"Is Madam Vasilou there?"
"Just a minute, please."
He could hear a vacuum cleaner, a voice gave instructions, then the telephone was picked up and the voice said, "This is Demetria."
"Hello," he said. "It's Costa Zannis." He waited, ready to turn the call toward some meaningless inquiry, everythin
g depended on what she said next.
Silence. Only the vacuum cleaner. Then: "Oh, Mr. Ionides, please forgive me, I won't be able to come to the office this afternoon. Unfortunately, I must attend a funeral, at the Evangelista cemetery, at four. It will have to be another time."
"I'll be there," Zannis said.
More silence, then the phone was hung up. As he replaced the receiver, he realized that his hand was trembling.
He made a great effort not to leave the office too early, then he did precisely that. I can't just sit here. It had drizzled all day, on and off, from a leaden winter sky, so he took an umbrella. By twenty minutes to four he reached the cemetery, decided to walk down to the waterfront, circled the White Tower, a former Turkish prison now pictured on postal cards, then went back up the hill.
As he passed through the entry gates, a group of mourners, led by an Orthodox priest, was on its way out, all dressed in black and wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs. Forcing himself to a slow pace, he walked down the central pathway until he reached the older part of the cemetery, past long rows of graves--headstones askew, clusters of cypress trees, and monuments with pillars and rusted iron doors. He searched as he walked, peering into the misting rain and fading light, but found no living soul, only the dead. Then, with a view from the top of a crumbling stairway, he saw, by the high wall that bordered the cemetery, a figure in a brown raincoat. Head covered by a black kerchief, a bouquet of anemones in clasped hands.
She saw him, as he approached, and stood still, heels properly together, posture erect, waiting. When they were a foot apart, he stopped and they stared at each other, as though uncertain what to do next. At last he said, "Demetria." Then very slowly raised his hand and touched her lips with two fingers. When he did this she closed her eyes, dropped the bouquet, and with her hand pressed his fingers against her. After a moment she let him go and, when he withdrew his hand, said, very quietly, "My God." I cannot believe that this has happened. As he leaned forward, as though to kiss her, she said, "Please," her face close to tears. "It isn't safe here."
