by Alex Gerlis
‘This is Moris – he helps me and I help him.’
The dream became blurred after that: there was some memory of moving forward to embrace Henry but he couldn’t recall actually touching him. As far as he could remember, the two boys turned round and then disappeared. But the memory of Henry turning round and speaking was as clear as if it was taking place in front of him.
‘This is Moris – he helps me and I help him.’
The message could not be clearer. He made up his mind.
He leaped out of bed, dressed quickly and knocked on the door, asking the guard to take him to see Alvertos straight away. The Greek was in his study, a silver pot of Turkish coffee on the desk in front of him, a wisp of steam spiralling out of its curved spout, a large ashtray next to it.
‘Very well, Alvertos, I’ll do it. I’ll go and rescue Moris then you keep your promise to me.’
Alvertos nodded, clearly surprised Prince had made his mind up so soon.
‘You made your mind up fast.’
‘It was made up for me.’
* * *
Richard Prince had expected matters to move much faster after that than they did. The pace of life in Turkey and especially in Alvertos’ world was taking some getting used to. He’d imagined Alvertos viewed the rescue of his son as a matter of urgency and, having recruited his rescuer, would be keen to send him to Greece as soon as possible.
But not for the first time Alvertos disappeared. He was around for some of the Friday and called him into his study at lunchtime. He embraced Prince warmly, holding him close for longer than Prince was comfortable with and told him they were now brothers. Alvertos then announced he needed a few days to arrange the trip. He wouldn’t be around over the weekend. Was there anything his brother needed?
‘I need to send an article to my magazine. They’ll be worrying as they’ve not heard from me for over a week. Could I borrow a typewriter and some paper, please?’
Alvertos told him they’d bring him the best typewriter money could buy in Istanbul and Prince replied that really wasn’t necessary, just so long as it worked and had all twenty-six letters of the English alphabet and most of the punctuation.
He spent much of the weekend writing the article. He felt he had to be frank with London. He could send an article containing a positive message about how the hunt for the chromium trail had taken a positive turn and he expected to have good news soon – well, sooner or later – but one had to be patient et cetera. But he worried London might not buy yet another one like that and he decided it was best to let them know he was going to Greece. That way, if anything bad happened to him there, at least they’d know where he was.
So he wrote a relatively short article about trade on the Bosphorus, how it flourished despite – or arguably because of – the war, and the remarkable way the river linked the two worlds of the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. It was not quite the subject matter they had in mind, but he felt it was the best way of getting across the message that he was going to Greece. He’d agreed with David that the article would be filed from the Grand Post Office on the Tuesday, so his message was embedded in the first words of every third sentence: new lead close chromium need visit Greece first stop.
He hoped they’d be pleased with the news that he had a new lead for the chromium, but imagined they’d be a bit annoyed at the news he was visiting Greece.
* * *
Alvertos returned to the compound on the Monday night in the middle of a storm that seemed determined to work its way into every corner of Istanbul. Despite the incessant sound of the rain beating around them, Prince was alerted by shouting in the courtyard and the slamming of doors. He’d been waiting for dinner in the lounge and went into the corridor just as Alvertos marched in, evidently angry at getting soaked on the short walk from the car to the front door.
He paused and looked at Prince as if surprised he was still there. He announced he needed to change and they’d talk after dinner. They did so back in the study, the sound of the storm now much more muffled but its presence still obvious.
‘It’s a good job you’re not travelling tonight.’ Alvertos moved his Beretta to one side of his desk and removed two large cigars from a wooden box. He snipped the end of both of them before passing one to Prince. ‘David tells me you want to send an article to your magazine.’
‘That’s right, Alvertos – I need to send it tomorrow.’
‘I’d like to see the article, please. Maybe you could fetch it?’ Alvertos was frowning through the thick cigar smoke. He sounded suspicious and read the article carefully, his mouth moving silently but no sign of any reaction. Prince was concerned Alvertos would wonder if there was a message concealed in the article or query the reference to Greece, but he seemed satisfied with it. He told Prince that it was too risky for him to file the article in person. David would go to the Grand Post Office the next day to do it.
‘We need to keep you out of view until you’re ready to leave.’
‘Are people looking for me?’
‘The Germans are still looking for you, my friend, but they don’t know who they’re looking for, if you see what I mean. They only know what you look like. Before you leave I need to be certain the Turkish authorities don’t know about you. Our information is that they don’t – but that could change. There’s a train that leaves Istanbul at six o’clock on Thursday morning. It’s due to arrive in Thessaloniki between eight and nine that night. That’s the train you’ll go on.’
‘And you’re sure, Alvertos… you’re sure I won’t arouse suspicion?’
‘We are as certain as we can be that no one is suspicious about your identity at the moment – I’ve just told you that. In any case we’ll check again late on Wednesday. But you must remember that there is a deep suspicion and distrust between Greeks and Turks – if I get a Greek to bring Moris here then they’ll come under suspicion as soon as they enter Turkey with him. If I send a Turk from here to collect him, they’ll have a hard time in Greece. And if I send a Jew… well, what Jew is going to travel into a Nazi-occupied country, eh? So that’s why I’m sending you.’
* * *
Five thirty on the Thursday morning in Istanbul. There was an almost autumnal chill about the city as the sun was in the very early stages of rising above the Sea of Marmara. This didn’t stop the city coming to life: the traders pushing their carts, the lorries pushing through the traffic, the fishing boats bobbing up and down on the Bosphorus, seemingly with all the time in the world.
It was 23rd September and Alvertos didn’t want Michael Eugene Doyle to arrive at Sirkeci station too early. He was convinced the Germans would be watching the station.
‘That’s what they do.’
The conversation had taken place the night before, in the study, with David and another man sitting alongside Prince. The other man was older, his nationality unclear. They hadn’t been introduced. Alvertos had spent some time giving Prince his final briefing: what to do at the station, how to behave on the journey, where to go in Thessaloniki, how to contact the police officer… how to get back.
‘You’ll arrive on the Thursday night… make contact with him on the Friday, allow them a day – maybe two – to bring Moris to the city then you should be ready to catch the Monday evening train from Istanbul to Thessaloniki. It leaves at seven thirty and arrives here around ten o’clock on the Tuesday morning.’
‘If all goes well…’
Alvertos shot an annoyed glance at Prince, the man he’d chosen to rescue his son. He expected a less negative attitude.
‘As I say, we must assume the Germans will have people at Sirkeci but they’re more likely to put their best watchers at Haydarpasa station. They’ll assume if you’re going to leave the city by train you’re more likely to head east, into British territory rather than west towards the Germans. Nonetheless, we’re going to take precautions.’
The first of Alvertos’ precautions was to take Michael Doyle to the station as late as possible and, th
anks to connections he had at the station, board the train away from the main ticket barrier.
The second precaution was the older man who’d sat in on the meeting in the study. Alvertos finally got round to introducing him as Georgi, ‘…one of my most trusted men…’ Georgi was a tall man, well over six foot with dark, untidy hair and thick, unruly eyebrows giving his eyes a hooded appearance. He was slightly stooped in bearing and didn’t look like the type of person one would want to fall out with. Prince certainly recognised something about him – the familiar air of a professional criminal.
‘Georgi is Bulgarian, so he is neither Greek nor Turkish. The Germans don’t know what to make of Bulgarians – no one knows what to make of Bulgarians, they’re like chameleons. Georgi works for me outside of Istanbul, sometimes in Bulgaria, sometimes around the Black Sea, sometimes in Greece. He’ll watch you on the train and in Thessaloniki. Once you’ve made contact with the policeman he’ll have to leave. But he’ll be your shadow, watching your back. Don’t approach him or even acknowledge him except in a real emergency.’
He was driven to Sirkeci station in a taxi by Salman who escorted him to the train, insisting on carrying his case. Salman took him into the station through a side door, nodding meaningfully to the man who opened it and locked it behind them. The same man led them down a passageway and then down a tunnel. When they climbed up at the end of it they’d emerged on one of the platforms, next to where freight was being loaded onto the train. The man motioned for them to pause. He and Salman stood in the shadows, the high canopy of the station above them, steam rising towards its roof, railings round the side of the platforms with soldiers – more of them than Prince had expected – leaning against them.
Another man approached them. He was wearing the smart uniform of a train guard. There was a brief conversation with Salman, at the end of which the guard took an envelope from the driver and slipped it into an inside pocket.
Salman shook his hand and disappeared back into the tunnel. The guard led Prince onto the train and took him to his seat in the first-class compartment. In the carriage before they passed Georgi, the Bulgarian’s eyes apparently closed.
The train pulled out of Sirkeci just ten minutes after its designated departure time and Prince was far more relaxed than he’d expected to be. He felt reassured by the presence of Georgi, so much so that he dozed for most of the seven hours the train took to reach the border. They stopped at Uzunköprü, the last station on the Turkish side, and were required to leave the train, a dozen of them at a time, climb down to the track – platforms must have been considered an unnecessary luxury here – and walk over to a dusty building where a bored official and his equally bored assistant checked passengers’ papers.
Michael Eugene Doyle’s papers seemed to be in order and the presence of an Irish journalist didn’t seemed to stir the border officials from their insouciance. Before they handed back his papers one of them told him in broken English that a fee was required. ‘For the border.’
A few minutes later the train crossed the frontier and pulled into the Greek border town, Pythion. This time, formalities were completed on board the train by far noisier and officious Greek border guards. Again, Michael Eugene Doyle’s papers were in order, again he was required to pay a fee. Two Germans followed – one in civilian clothes, the other in a Wehrmacht uniform. For whatever reason, the civilian appeared distracted and did little more than glance at Doyle’s papers before returning them. No mention of another fee.
It was two o’clock before the train resumed its journey, following the line of the border south towards the Aegean Sea, the water’s presence announcing itself by the change in shape and luminescence of the sky long before it burst into view. They stopped in Alexandroupolis, a much larger town, and here there was a more thorough check: Gestapo officers working in pairs examining everyone’s papers. They looked interested when presented with Michael Doyle’s passport, quite possibly the first Irish one they’d ever seen. They passed it between themselves, unsure how to question him.
Prince addressed them in German, explaining he’d learned it when visiting their admirable country before the war.
‘Yes, but how long before the war?’
He replied in 1936, 1937 and 1938, and they nodded approvingly and asked him why he was visiting Thessaloniki and for how long. They appeared to be satisfied enough when he said this would be a good opportunity to visit a country he’d not been to before. They looked slightly bemused but wished him a pleasant stay.
The train pulled into Thessaloniki just as the giant station clock turned to nine o’clock. As he left the train he saw Georgi already on the platform, apparently checking his ticket, clearly waiting for him to walk by.
‘Don’t worry about Georgi, just make sure you’re ahead of him. He’ll follow you and find where you’re staying. Ask the taxi driver to take you to a decent hotel around Aristotelous Square. As long as it looks good, check in there. You should have time to make your first contact that night.’
* * *
It was a pleasant hotel, Prince happily paying a bit extra for a room on a higher floor with its own bathroom and promised views over the Gulf of Thermaikos. He unpacked, had a quick wash and by nine thirty was back at the reception, asking for directions to the seafront as he fancied some fresh air.
He walked down Aristotelous Square to the seafront, turning right and walking towards the port, occasionally pausing to look out to sea and taking the opportunity to glance around. Not once did he see Georgi; he was certain no one was following him. He stopped at a cafe, its terrace overlooking the seafront and ordered a beer. It gave him a perfect opportunity to observe all around him and he was confident no one was paying him any attention. Whatever the Bulgarian may be up to, he wasn’t following him.
He continued along the seafront, once or twice turning off it to walk round a block. By now he was in the dock area, the streets quieter, darker and altogether less jolly. One or two of the bars he passed were dimly lit, their customers standing still in the doorway, watching him carefully as he strolled past.
Off Karatasou he spotted Bar Parnassus. He felt his heart beat faster, his chest tighten and his breathing become heavy. He had to concentrate to ensure he was walking at an even pace. He walked past the bar and at the end of the block turned right and stopped in a dark doorway to light a cigarette and check he was alone. He waited until the cigarette was half finished, dropped it to the ground and continued along, soon coming to the small alleyway Alvertos had so carefully described. Prince could picture the neat drawing Alvertos had sketched, pushing it towards him, imploring him to memorise it.
‘Halfway along the alley – on the right-hand side – you’ll come to the rear entrance of Bar Parnassus. You’ll be able to look over the fence and there you’ll see crates of empty bottles and an open door into the kitchen. Go to the door and ask to speak to Apostolos – he’s the owner and like a brother to me. He looks after my interests in Thessaloniki now. Give him this letter. He speaks some English, you don’t need to worry.’
Apostolos had come to the door very quickly and no sooner did he see the envelope than he looked past Prince and hurried him into the kitchen. From there he led him upstairs into a small windowless room off the first-floor landing, the noise of the bar filtering up through the floor. He was a large man, wearing a barkeeper’s apron over a dirty white shirt, a walrus moustache standing out on an otherwise hairless head. His tiny dark eyes looked at Prince suspiciously. He pointed to a chair and read the letter from Alvertos once more. When he’d finished tears had formed in his eyes and he waited a while before using his apron to dry them.
‘Alvertos assures me I’m to trust you.’ The small eyes looked him up and down as if he wasn’t so sure.
‘He said you’d help.’
‘Of course I’ll help. I owe everything to Alvertos. So many people do around here, apart from the dead ones.’ The tears started again. ‘There was nothing we could do, you know, nothing. It happ
ened so fast, the deportations – tens of thousands of people in just a few weeks. I had no idea Moris had been saved. If I’d had the opportunity I would have protected him like my own son… and dear little Eleanora and poor Perla… I had so many friends… they’ll be dead now.’
He shook his head and then turned sideways to Prince, chewing his knuckles and deep in thought.
‘Lieutenant Theodoropoulos, eh… who’d have thought it?’
‘You know him?’
‘Of course I know him… very smart – the only policeman in this city ever to get the better of Alvertos. But rescuing Moris like that, I’d never have thought it.’
‘Alvertos said you’d be able to contact him?’
Apostolos nodded, noticeably more comfortable with his visitor now.
‘Come back here tomorrow, at five o’clock in the afternoon. You may need to wait. Come through the back again, just go straight into the kitchen. Alvertos says you’re in Thessaloniki as an Irish journalist?’
‘I am, I—’
‘…tomorrow, don’t do very much – maybe a few obvious sights like the White Tower, but otherwise stay around the centre. Don’t come anywhere near here until you have to. Come now, you’d better leave, I’ll walk with you back to the road.’
It was approaching midnight when Prince finally fell into bed. Thessaloniki was much quieter than Istanbul, probably the difference between a city at war and under curfew and one at peace and alive at night. For a few minutes he found the silence disconcerting before he fell asleep.
As he did so Georgi was in the corridor outside Prince’s room, checking all was in order. The foreigner was good, he thought. Even though he didn’t appear to have spotted him, he was nonetheless very professional in the route he took from the hotel to Apostolos’ bar. His checks that he wasn’t being followed were very careful and not at all obvious.
