The Silver Stain

by Paul Johnston

‘Good man!’ Blatter moved down the passage between the camp beds. I tried to shrink into my bed, but it was no good. ‘Ah, Private Kersten. The hero of Galatsi.’ His tone was ironic in the extreme. ‘Men, let’s have a round of applause for the sole survivor of that disaster.’ He began to clap slowly and the wounded men who were able joined in, fully aware that I was being humiliated.

  I saw the doctor standing at the end of the tent. His face was expressionless, but I felt his disapproval of Blatter.

  ‘So, my hero, are you ready for some more of Reichsmarshall Göring’s work?’ The captain leaned over me, inspecting my bandage with a curled lip. ‘You seem well enough.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Doctor, can I have this man?’

  I saw the medic raise his shoulders. ‘If you feel it’s completely necessary, Captain.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’ Blatter seized my arm and pulled me up. ‘Boots on and outside in one minute, Private,’ he ordered, turning on his heel.

  I fumbled with the laces of my jump boots and tugged on my jacket.

  The captain was waiting for me outside, surrounded by a group of under-officers and sergeants. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is Private Kersten, the heroic survivor of Galatsi. Fortunately, his head wound isn’t severe enough to have prevented him from volunteering for this afternoon’s mission.’

  The others regarded me with contempt bordering on revulsion. It was clear that Blatter had told them I was a coward, who had inflicted the head wound on myself. None spoke as we marched out to a line of vehicles, the smaller of which must have been landed by the Luftwaffe. The absence of gunfire confirmed what I had heard in the hospital tent – the battle was over and the enemy absent from the area around Maleme.

  I was told to climb up into a captured British lorry full of paratroopers. They were all armed with rifles or machine-pistols, while I didn’t even have my gravity knife. It must have been stolen when I was unconscious – or perhaps the doctor thought I might be suicidal. We drove for about half an hour, but it was impossible to see anything out of the uncovered rear because of the dust raised by the lorry’s large wheels.

  ‘Out!’ shouted a sergeant.

  The men jumped down, brushing past me. Whatever the oper-ation was, they were avid for it. Most of them were wearing shorts – supplies of equipment and weapons were abundant now.

  I climbed down slowly, my head spinning. When it cleared, I saw that we had pulled up in an olive grove outside a village. Paratroopers were already breaking down doors and pushing people out into the single unpaved street – old men, women in black, children.

  ‘Kersten!’ Blatter roared. ‘Over here, now!’

  I went, a black curtain descending over my eyes as I tried to keep a regular pace. I blinked, but still could only see fleeting visions of my surroundings.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ the captain demanded. ‘Give him an MP40, sergeant.’

  The weapon was shoved into my hands and ammunition clips stuffed into my pockets.

  ‘Follow me, at the double.’

  By the time Blatter and I got to the three-sided square in the centre of the village, a large crowd had gathered. I saw wizened elderly faces and the smooth cheeks of boys. There were no young men – they would have been conscripted when the Italians invaded mainland Greece. But there were young women. And she was one of them.

  I closed my eyes for a long moment, nausea flooding through me, and then opened them again. Her dark hair was matted and unwashed, and her black dress looked like it had been pulled through a thorn bush, but her eyes were as haughty as ever. She saw me and gave me a look of such untamed courage that I had to lower my eyes.

  ‘Every tenth man over there!’ Blatter ordered, pointing to the open field on the square’s fourth side. It was lined with eucalyptus trees, presumably watered by a stream to the rear.

  Paratroopers started grabbing men from the crowd and sending them stumbling across the tall grass. I couldn’t make out any system in the count – whoever the soldiers wanted was chosen.

  ‘Now the women!’ Blatter screamed. ‘Check them for recoil marks.’

  There was uproar from the villagers as paratroopers tore down the dresses of the women, some of them obviously grandmothers. When one of my comrades came to my saviour, he slapped her face when she held her eyes on his, and then ripped the top of her dress away. I saw her firm breasts and then my heart stopped. While the wound on her right shoulder was covered by a bloodstained bandage, her left shoulder was heavily bruised. She had managed to use a weapon even on the wrong side.

  ‘Over there!’ the captain ordered, pushing her towards the line of men in the meadow.

  Twenty of our men had already formed a firing squad.

  ‘What is this?’ I stuttered. ‘These are civilians.’

  ‘The Reichsmarshall has ordered that exemplary measures be taken against all who dared to resist us.’ Blatter gave a tight smile. ‘Without any further process of law. Makrymari is home to many murderers and francs-tireurs. Private, join the execution detail. Immediately!’

  I tried to keep my balance as I walked over. I had it in my mind to give the woman a quick death, but the order came too soon for my befuddled mind and the firing started before I could even pull back the slide on my weapon.

  She was already on her back, her arms flung wide and her head an explosion of crimson.

  Darkness came over me and I collapsed.

  TWELVE

  Mavros and Cara Parks walked out of the hotel and followed the lit path towards the beach. The actress walked close, her shoulder brushing against his.

  ‘The night’s beautiful here,’ she said, stopping and looking up. ‘You can see every star sprinkled across the dome of the heavens.’

  ‘Don’t you get that in LA?’

  She laughed softly. ‘You obviously haven’t been. The city’s lit up like an operating theatre. You can’t see anything of the night sky.’

  ‘Not even on Mulholland Drive?’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she said, turning to him and then walking on.

  ‘I thought you brought me out here to talk about the accident,’ he said, catching up with her. ‘Rather than warble poetically about the sky at night.’

  ‘Perils of an English major,’ she said, looking at him thoughtfully. ‘Besides, I grew up in Arizona. You really think that old story has something to do with what happened to Maria here?’

  ‘I don’t know, but something strange is going on. It seems like a good place to start.’

  They had reached the beginning of the beach. Cara led him to a table at the extent of the bar area. A waiter in boots, vraka and embroidered cummerbund appeared instantly, and she ordered fizzy water. Mavros went along with that to keep sharp.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ the actress asked, after the drinks had arrived.

  ‘The accident and the boy’s death don’t interest me as much as the substitution of drivers.’

  Cara stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? What do you think being a killer driver would have done to my career? Back then I wasn’t where I am now.’

  ‘But, as far as I’ve seen, Maria escaped punishment because the victim was out of his head.’

  ‘Yeah, but we didn’t know that at the time, did we? Christ, he came out of nowhere. He could have been a kid on a midnight ramble.’

  Mavros wasn’t sure if she was being straight with him. If not, her professional skills were even better than he’d given her credit for.

  ‘So, what? You called Maria and told her to get out there as quickly as she could?’

  Cara nodded.

  ‘And when did you tell her to take the rap?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ The actress’s eyes met his. ‘As a matter of fact, it was her idea. Dear Maria, she’d do anything for me. She told me to go home and leave her car in the drive – when the cops asked, I was to say I’d given Maria permission to drive the Merc. I was in shock and I had trouble driving, but I managed it. She called me from police headq
uarters and I went in a taxi to bail her out.’

  ‘You went yourself? Don’t you have people to do your dirty work?’ Mavros chose the last words carefully.

  ‘Dirty work? Maria stood up for me and I’m supposed to send – who? My agent? – to get her out of that stinking holding pen?’

  ‘I imagine most of your fellow actors would send a lawyer.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I must be weird, then. Besides, like I told you, Maria isn’t just my assistant, she’s my friend.’

  Mavros thought about that. Was it possible that Maria Kondos was the one who was covering up? Could she be taking advantage of Cara in some way? That still didn’t explain why she left the resort under her own steam, or why she had ended up in Kornaria.

  ‘Good evening, Alex, Ms Parks.’

  Mavros stood up as Rudolf Kersten and his wife approached the table from behind.

  ‘Please, don’t let us disturb you,’ the old man said, in good English. ‘We often take a turn down here in the evening.’

  Mavros glanced at Cara. She was smiling at the resort owner.

  ‘Join us, please,’ she said, apparently relieved that their private conversation had been ended. ‘We’re enjoying the night sky.’

  Rudolf looked up at the stars and the great swathe of the Milky Way – the lights at the bar were not intrusive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is magnificent, indeed. And the scent of the trees passing over the water.’ There was sadness in his voice.

  ‘Come now,’ Hildegard said, ‘you have been here a thousand times. It’s a place of joy, Rudi.’

  The resort owner shook his head slowly. ‘Only in part, my dear.’

  His wife gave him an exasperated look. ‘I told you to have nothing to do with that . . . that damned film. It has been bad for you, all these memories coming back to life.’ Then she glanced across at Cara. ‘I am sorry, Ms Parks, but it is the truth.’

  ‘Don’t apologize,’ the actress said graciously. ‘Acting in this movie has made me realize how terrible the war was for everyone involved in it. How terrible any war must be.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ Rudolf said, smiling. ‘It is important that the message gets across to the young. That is another reason for my involvement in Freedom or Death.’

  The waiter arrived again, beaming as he greeted the owner and his wife. He was dispatched for more water and a bottle of raki.

  ‘I’m not supposed to drink alcohol any more,’ Rudolf said, ‘but sometimes I feel the need.’ He smiled softly at Hildegard. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t overindulge.’

  When the drinks arrived, he poured shots of the spirit into three glasses.

  ‘My dear wife is teetotal,’ he said, ‘but I hope you young people will join me.’

  Mavros, flattered at being linked in that way with the actress, nodded. She did the same and soon they were raising their glasses.

  ‘To . . . to peace,’ Rudolf said, his eyes suddenly damp.

  ‘This is good stuff,’ Mavros said, as the old man blinked away his tears.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Rudolf said. ‘It’s from a village to the west.’ He looked across to the barman. ‘Angelos comes from there.’

  Mavros remembered David Waggoner’s accusations. The waiter’s attitude to his boss was hardly suggestive of blood money having been paid.

  ‘You have a lot of staff from the area?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hildegard replied, her hand on her husband’s. ‘Rudi has always made sure the local people get jobs in the Heavenly Blue.’

  ‘Especially those whose villages suffered under my country’s rule of terror,’ the old man said, his voice low. ‘I have been accused of buying favours, I have been accused of using my wealth to absolve myself from sins committed during the war – as you heard this afternoon, Alex.’

  Cara Parks looked on in bewilderment.

  ‘But what I and my countrymen did during the war,’ Rudolf continued, ‘cannot be forgiven by financial offerings, even though the vendetta tradition on this island allows for such a solution. What we did was a crime for which there is no atonement.’

  ‘Come, dearest,’ Hildegard said, getting to her feet. ‘You are tired. Leave the young ones to their contemplation of the night’s beauty.’

  Rudolf Kersten stood up slowly, his shoulders slumped. ‘And tomorrow, Ms Parks, you film the massacre, I understand.’

  Cara nodded, her expression sombre. ‘I’m not looking forward to it.’

  ‘Ah, but you must give of your best,’ the old man said, his face animated. ‘You will give hope to all oppressed people, you will inspire the cause of freedom around the world.’

  The actress, now also on her feet, looked humbled. ‘I will try,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight, Alex,’ Rudolf said. ‘Come to see us before you leave.’

  Mavros nodded, finding himself almost moved to bow before the old man’s nobility of spirit.

  ‘You won’t be on set tomorrow?’ Cara asked.

  ‘He most certainly will not,’ Hildegard said, her chin jutting. ‘There are some memories he cannot live through again.’

  Mavros was reluctant, but there was a question he had to ask.

  ‘The raki and the waiter, which village do they come from?’

  Rudolf Kersten gave him a direct look. ‘Makrymari,’ he replied. ‘Where the massacre the film is recreating took place.’

  Mavros and Cara watched the old couple move slowly up the path towards the hotel. Neither of them had anything to say.

  Shortly afterwards, Mavros’s phone rang.

  ‘Hey, private eye, where the fuck are you?’ Luke Jannet sounded like he’d consumed a barrel of Crete’s finest. ‘You gettin’ it on with Twin Peaks?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, get your asses over here. I’ve kept you a couple of creatures with claws.’ He guffawed. ‘And I don’t mean Rosie and Alice.’

  Mavros put his hand over the phone and looked at Cara. ‘Jannet wants us to join them in Chania.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell him I’m learning my lines.’

  He relayed the message, then had a thought. ‘Mr Jannet, would it be possible for me to postpone my departure for a day or two?’

  There was a long pause. ‘And why would you want to do that, my man?’

  ‘A couple of things to tie up. Besides, I’d like to see the massacre shoot that everyone’s talking about.’

  As he’d suspected, that appealed to the director’s self-importance. ‘Well, if that’s the case, why not? We should be finished the run-throughs by lunchtime, so get yourself to the set by two p.m.’

  ‘The set in Makrymari?’

  Jannet laughed. ‘Shit, no. We built our own village. The locals weren’t too keen on going through another mass shooting, even a staged one. All the drivers know where it is.’ The director rang off.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Cara said, getting up. ‘I really do have to look over my lines.’

  Mavros signalled to the waiter, but he said that everything was on Mr Kersten.

  As they walked back up the path, the actress took Mavros’s arm. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Alex?’

  He turned to her. ‘No, I don’t. I mean, yes, I do. Shit. It’s irrelevant what I think. You’re one of my clients.’

  She laughed. ‘Who said anything about thinking?’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Don’t you do feeling in this country? I thought Greeks were demonstrative and led by their emotions.’

  ‘I’m only half Greek, remember. The other part is a cold Scottish loch.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Loch. As in the Loch Ness Monster?’

  ‘Oh, a lock.’ She giggled. ‘Didn’t that raki warm you up?’ She managed to mispronounce the spirit too.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he replied. ‘But the massacre talk froze me to the core.’

  ‘So why are you coming to the shoot?’

  ‘Good question. Maybe I just want to see you play a freedom fighter in a black dress.’

  ‘Is that right?’ They h
ad reached the hotel entrance. ‘How about a nightcap?’

  Mavros was tempted, but he had things to do and Niki to consider.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Cara took the rejection in her stride. ‘Goodnight, then.’ She kissed him on the cheek and headed for the stairs. Apparently he wasn’t the only resident who kept fit that way.

  He was outside his room when his phone rang again.

  ‘Hey, Alex, it’s Mikis.’ The driver’s voice was rushed.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’ve had an episode with the bullies from Kornaria.’

  ‘Any casualties?’

  ‘Only on their side.’

  ‘You sure they didn’t get into the clinic?’

  ‘As sure as I am that two of them will wake up with broken ribs.’

  Mavros glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten and his stomach was rumbling. ‘I’m coming over,’ he said. ‘Fancy something to eat?’

  ‘Any neo-Nazi baiting tonight?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Pity. OK, take one of our vehicles – get the driver to call me before you set off.’

  ‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’

  ‘Not in vendetta-land, no.’

  Mavros went into his room and put his laptop and Nondas’s keys in his bag. He decided he’d spend the night in his brother-in-law’s place and try speaking to Maria Kondos in the morning.

  After he’d gone through the procedure with the driver, a late-middle-aged man named Yerasimos, the car – a high-end saloon – swung out of the resort gate and headed east.

  ‘How do you find the film crew?’ he asked. Not having a car in Athens, he always talked to taxi drivers. Although some were morons, many had informed views about life and he often picked up useful information from them.

  ‘West Coast Americans,’ Yerasimos replied, as if that was sufficient explanation.

  ‘Loud, overconfident?’ Mavros encouraged.

  ‘Put it this way. I spent thirty years driving a cab in New York City. Californians are pussycats compared with the customers there. But I don’t think they’re very serious people.’

  ‘Hollywood doesn’t exactly have a reputation for encouraging intellectuals,’ Mavros said, realizing that Yerasimos would know plenty about the film crew. ‘Have you driven Cara Parks?’