by Emma Lathen
“Well, Stavros, “said one guest, a large fleshy man who had known Bacharias all his life. “And you are busy down at your office? Many new pieces of paper?” A lawyer, he affected a mocking weariness that was the Greek version of sophistication.
“There is a certain increase,” Bacharias agreed, passing the nut bowl. His Greek was curiously like his English, a shade pedantic. He used the precise formulations of katharevoussa, the language of the educated even in informal discourse.
Not so another guest. With gusto, he used the earthy domestic language of the common folk. “All this BS!” he exploded, cracking a walnut. “Little soldiers in uniform. Yagh! What difference does it make? The trouble with Greece is that there are too many little soldiers! Too many papers! Yes, Panayotis, too many lawyers!”
Bacharias smiled but it was his third guest who replied: “Easy to say, little Georgios! You sit on your lands and expect the world to stand still, as you have done! No, we make progress!”
“Progress! Pfa!”
They were all old friends who could say to each other what none would confide to his wife. Yet Greek indirection being what it is, their intimacy did not spark the kind of political discussion expressly forbidden by the regime; on the contrary, since they knew each other so well it was unnecessary.
“So Stavros,” said the oldest man present, once the First Counselor at the London Embassy. “Do you face new problems?”
Bacharias waited until the maid put a tray of liqueurs on the table. “There are as is to be expected, difficulties. Take this missing American . . .”
His guests had heard about this before and made encouraging noises. “I left him in Salonika,” said Bacharias absently searching a dish of pastries. “First he was arrested. Then they were taking him to headquarters for questioning. Routine enough in its way. But now—poof! Who knows where he is! Oh, it is strange, but it could be very important!”
“How could such a thing happen!” asked the agriculturist angrily. “These little colonels are impossible! No system! No arrangement!”
The diplomat asked if anyone knew where the American was.
“No one,” said Bacharias. “You cannot imagine how discouraging it is. Already the Americans have begun with questions . . .”
“The Americans!” said the landowner robustly.
“And,” Bacharias continued implacably, “ultimately the colonels will do something. I worry about it. Perhaps I myself should be doing something more. Ah, these are difficult days!”
“Exactly,” said the lawyer, rising. “Stavros, you are too conscientious. This American for example. We all know you did what you could. Who can blame you for what happened to him after you left him? These are violent days in Greece.”
The diplomat nodded energetically. “Oh, indeed, indeed,” he agreed. “Just today, I heard of Dino Stamatis—you know him, the poet—he was found, floating face down in Gythion Harbor!”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!”
“Who killed him—and why? Will the world ever know?” the diplomat asked histrionically. “No, Stavros, remember, a revolution has taken place. It is not for you to worry! But for others. You have done what you could.”
Bacharias, however, had the soul as well as the outward appurtenances of the civil servant. “Philosophically, I accept what you say, my dear Dr. Frangos. But, I would sleep happier tonight if I knew where Mr. Nicolls is—and what he is doing.”
The lawyer took a turn around the room. “That of course does you credit.”
But the farmer, in fact a large landowner from Sparta, said: “Stavros, Stavros! You are too much citified. Your father would not have talked like this! Nor your Aunt Virginia! Now, you are learning to worry! Come back to the country! That way you learn to live with what Nature brings—with life and death!”
This produced a round of laughter, and one of those argumentative exchanges that ultimately descend on all Greek gatherings.
At Hellenus, work was going on as usual. Functionaries bustled around with folders and blueprints; the grounds were dusty with jeeps and trucks; workmen swarmed, shouted, and worked.
The sun beat down.
Cliff Leonard, who had never seen anything more beautiful than Ames, Iowa, wiped sweat from his brow. “Yeah? So, what else?”
The very small dark man opposite him broke into lucid, Oxford-accented speech. Leonard listened. Then, as was his wont, he thought. This habit, had he but known it, threw all his foreign contacts into paroxysms of anxiety.
“I don’t like it,” he said finally.
The Greek spoke brilliantly, nervously and at length.
“Sure,” said Cliff Leonard. “Listen, Nicolls was green, but he wasn’t anybody’s fool. And he works for the Sloan. So don’t give me that hot air about his getting lost. I’ve had calls from the Embassy. What the hell happened, I wonder.”
The Greek spoke again.
Leonard looked down at him. “Look, buster, you got your problems and I got mine. But don’t try that line. Something funny’s happening. I better do what I can.”
He strode off. The Greek, cleverer, more voluble, and more devious, watched him with suddenly narrowed eyes.
“Yes, you may be troublesome, Mr. Leonard,” he said. To himself.
Chapter 7
The Labors of Hercules
The object of his widespread interest, Ken Nicolls, was limping along the inland highway southward to Verroia. So far, events were proceeding according to plan.
“Sure, sure!” Louis had agreed when they parted, “I will call this Mr. Riemer for you. He’ll be worried about his car. I will give him your message.”
Louis had accepted the cryptic message without a blink. Ken had congratulated himself on his plausibility. Little did he know that Louis was congratulating him on his act. To Louis it was quite clear. The young American, by handing over ten times the cost of the phone call, had found an unexceptionable way to repay his hosts for their hospitality without wounding their sensibilities.
But physical discomfort was threatening Ken’s sense of well-being. The final collapse of his shoes, never designed for cross-country work, had been accomplished by the stony track along which Louis had led him immediately after breakfast. Nor had Louis’ final words been comforting. The hours of the bus to Verroia were not fixed with any precision. Ken was to march steadily southward and, sooner or later, the bus would overtake him. But steady progress demands willing feet. By now a substantial amount of debris, of an unyielding nature, had collected between his split shoe soles and the tattered remnants of his socks.
A large shaded rock proved irresistible. Ken decided that he could wait for the bus sitting as well as walking and he could seize the opportunity to empty his shoes. With the weight off his feet, he realized for the first time that it was a beautiful morning, bright, cloudless, and cool enough to be refreshing. The road also met with his approval. It had come through the earthquake better than its coastal companion, perhaps because, along this stretch at least, it ran level between the fields without overhanging rocks and trees. Ken allowed his newly-freed foot an invigorating stretch while he upended its shoe and started to dislodge some of the more tenacious sediment.
His absorption was so complete that the jeep had stopped directly by his side before he was startled into awareness. He was looking straight into the eyes of three Greek soldiers.
The volley of Greek questions which ensued did nothing to reassure him. He shrugged. It really made very little difference to him what they were saying. When hoping to pass as an earthquake victim, Ken had not bargained on an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. His worst fears were confirmed when the driver, after peering intently at the jacket so recently brushed into respectability by Ken’s hostess, turned to his sergeant and unleashed a torrent of Greek ending in the word American.
The sergeant, in his turn, leaned out to inspect the evidence. Then, with all the signs of effort, he searched a limited English vocabulary and, banishing his fierce scowl, laboriously intoned one
word.
“Friends?” he questioned tentatively.
It was not what Ken had expected, but he wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. “Friends!” he declared enthusiastically. Maybe they would all shake hands and offer each other cigarettes, he thought. But no that was not to be. The sergeant issued a sharp command, boxes were shifted, and Ken was motioned into the rear seat. He hung back for an instant, but the gestures became unmistakably minatory. Ken remembered the rifle butt last time. He obeyed, sadly stuffing his foot into its shoe and hoisting himself aboard.
He was still puzzled by that initial offer of friendship. Of course, it might be simple Old World politeness. They wanted him to know that, even though they were going to shoot him, they bore no personal malice. More likely, the sergeant had made a simple linguistic error. He might have thought he was asking if Ken were a gangster, in which case Ken’s hearty confirmation would explain the immediate summons to the jeep. Or could there still be a ray of hope? Maybe things were not as bad as they seemed. But, whatever the situation, Ken’s heart sank when the jeep swept into a U-turn and started back toward Salonika.
Within an hour they were roaring past a post office. At exactly that moment, inside the post office, the supervisor of the exchange was saying firmly: “But no! All long distance lines have been commandeered because of the earthquake. Do you think yours is the only accident to be reported? No private calls are permitted. Absolutely none!” Cousin Louis shrugged philosophically. He had done his best. And that young American had only wanted to be generous anyway.
Two hours later Ken Nicolls was in the same state of doubt. The lack of a common language relieved him of the necessity of sustaining a role, but it made the acquisition of information impossible. He had cautiously offered his cigarette pack, and the offer had been accepted by both privates. After a good deal of careful consideration, Ken decided that the sergeant’s refusal proved nothing. Either sergeants didn’t smoke with prisoner or this particular sergeant didn’t smoke cigarettes.
But clarification was at hand. The jeep, which had been charging up a dirt road for forty-five minutes, suddenly breasted a hillside and slid to a halt beside an encampment of tents, trucks and ambulances. A bright banner flapped in the wind proclaiming: AMERICAN FRIENDS SERVICE COMMITTEE.
Before Ken’s feet touched the ground, the jeep was reversing to turn. A harassed bald man with a clipboard darted forward.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been expecting you since last night. You’ve no idea how shorthanded we are.”
Grasping Ken’s elbow, he started to propel him toward the largest of the tents, chattering briskly about tetanus vaccine and morphine ampoules. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Ken’s jacket.
“But you don’t belong to us,” he said sharply. “You belong to Jamison!”
“Jamison?” Ken queried weakly. With approval he noted that the jeep was out of sight.
“Well you’re Red Cross, aren’t you? Jamison’s in charge of the Canadian detachment. But they’re thirty miles farther north!”
“I’m sorry,” Ken murmured, letting the tide sweep him where it would.
“And if you think we’re going to ferry you up to him you can think again,” the bald man said accusingly. “We’ve got enough on our plate right now. You can help out here.”
A less preoccupied man might have been suspicious of the readiness with which Ken abandoned any hope of reaching Jamison. Instead his new-found employer put Ken to work within minutes. The next few hours were such a bustle of unloading crates, checking invoices, and carting supplies to the field hospital that Ken had very little time to consider his situation.
But two things were obvious. The insignia of the International Red Cross, which he had pinned so casually to his lapel in the railroad station, was responsible for his acceptance as a relief worker by both Greeks and Americans. And he had reached temporary sanctuary. True, when the first turmoil of crisis began to subside, someone was bound to discover that an irregular had managed to add himself to the roster. In the meanwhile, he could very profitably use the time to consolidate his position.
The first item on, his agenda was raised by a coworker, an old hand of twenty-two and a veteran of previous campaigns.
“Boy, you must be new here,” he said after a disparaging glance at Ken’s battered footwear. “For this kind of work, you want boots!”
Ken wanted more than that. Within two days, during which he worked harder and for longer hours than ever before in his life, he effected a transformation in his appearance. He was picturesquely unshaven and had acquired, piece by piece, the unofficial uniform of the Quaker camp—a white faded chino pants, and field boots, augmented at night by a grimy sweatshirt emblazoned Swarthmore. Surprisingly, he looked years younger, the kind of irresponsible youth to which no bank in its right mind would entrust weighty affairs. He also finished a detailed account of his predicament addressed to the American Embassy in Athens which was now in the pile of mail waiting for a pick-up truck.
An extended stay with the American Friends Service Committee was out of the question. The bald man with the clipboard was, unfortunately, an administrative precisionist, and Ken’s unorthodox position was a thorn in his side. In spite of willing labor and lack of complaint, Ken was deluged with promises of transport north. His sense of security was further undermined when, on the second morning, he was helping unload supplies in the soup kitchen. A cook was hovering about, urging them to concentrate on dried eggs and dried milk.
“I want the high-protein stuff,” he explained. “We’re beginning to get the bad cases, the ones who had trouble getting here.”
Ken, remembering the condition of yesterday’s refugees, was appalled and said so.
“It always happens,” a knowledgeable helper remarked. “By the third day after a disaster, the ones who had to crawl are showing up.”
The cook agreed. “Say what you will, these Greeks are tough. Look at that old man over there. Seventy, if he’s a day, and he carried a grandson with a smashed leg at least ten miles.”
Ken looked over at the hero of the hour. He was a gnarled old peasant, sitting at one of the board tables, slumped over a bowl of soup in the lassitude of exhaustion. Then Ken’s eye travelled to the old man’s neighbor, and he stiffened. There, breaking a piece of bread and chatting to his companion with bird-like vivacity was the little Greek interpreter of the paddy wagon. For a moment Ken wondered if he could be mistaken. But no, he had ample opportunity to examine the man under the brilliant arc lights at the Salonika railroad station while they waited for the additional prisoners to be rounded up. And while his clothes were now ragged and disheveled, he had obviously used the relief station’s soap and water to restore a good deal of his former spruceness.
Ken realized that he had forgotten all about his fellow prisoners the moment he parted from them at the coast road. Presumably they too had been crashing around in his vicinity during the initial stage of his flight. But certainly, by the time he had fallen during the second series of tremors, he had effectively separated himself from them. He remembered the unearthly quiet and the placid sky when he had risen. But if they had survived, they would all have had the same thought as Ken. Safety lay in becoming an earthquake victim. And they were all better equipped to play the role than Ken. The interpreter, if he recalled correctly, was even a Macedonian.
Remaining at the relief station seemed less and less attractive. Whatever the odds for a successful escape, they were going to be lessened by being in the vicinity of other fugitives. Ken faded unobtrusively out of the kitchen tent, hoping that the sprightly interpreter had not spotted him. He was determined to seize the first opportunity for a break to the south.
His chance came shortly after nightfall. A party of Greeks had been dug out of the ruins of a collapsed house in which they had been buried for over three days. Two men were in critical condition. To add to the confusion a young woman was on the brink of childbirth. The camp
was pandemonium. The bald man rushed back and forth, diverting people from their normal duties and pressing them into service.
“You!” he barked at Ken. “You’ll have to drive the ambulance. I don’t have anyone else I can spare. We’ll give the two men emergency treatment here, but they’ll have to go to Larissa for surgery. It’s their only chance. We’ll radio ahead so the hospital will be ready.”
Ken’s heart leaped. Larissa was a good solid one hundred and twenty miles south of Salonika, and it was his gateway to Athens. He would drive the victims to the hospital, then he would shed the doctor and medics companioning him, and proceed in his new guise.
The bald man continued with the conscription. The mail clerk, summoned to serve as midwife’s assistant, hastily jammed the outgoing letters into their pouches. In his confusion, he included Ken Nicoll’s letter with the mail destined for the Friends Service Committee headquarters in Philadelphia.
There, it was faithfully forwarded by sea mail and arrived in Athens four weeks later.
Ken had no trouble evading his companions in Larissa. On the contrary, they all trailed off in the wake of the stretchers to somewhere in the depths of the hospital. But their approach through the deserted streets of the city had warned Ken that he must not appear in public until the daytime bustle of town life had commenced. The only visible figures had been patrolling soldiers. A solitary male, loitering aimlessly, was sure to be stopped and questioned. He needed someplace under cover where he could pass the two or three hours before breakfast time. And the hospital would not do lest his Quaker friends reappear and demand his return.
A cautious tour of the grounds showed him what he wanted. Like most hospitals this one had an all-night cafe nearby which served the needs of the night shifts. When Ken entered he knew he had found the right place. The hospital was working on an emergency basis these days and the cafe was thronged with medical personnel, relief workers, and relatives waiting for word about victims. A group of medical students made room for him at their table and Ken foresightedly ordered food as well as drink.
