The Black Life

by Paul Johnston

Mavros felt a twitch in his groin. ‘Lucky you. I’m on the street and the bloody Vardharis is freezing my nuts off.’

  ‘No, no, not that! Wrap them up well. When does your flight land?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aren’t you coming back tonight?’ Her voice was suddenly hard.

  ‘Em, no …’

  ‘I don’t understand. The Fat Man said he was going to talk to you.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for? We both need you.’

  Mavros thought about it. He could cut and run, but it went against the grain professionally. Plus, the Samuel case was progressing. Maybe he could just go down for a day.

  ‘Look, I have to talk to my client.’ He remembered in time not to mention Rachel. ‘I’ll try to get an early flight tomorrow.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  He didn’t like being threatened, especially where his work concerned. ‘I said, I’ll talk to my client, Niki,’ he repeated. ‘There are certain protocols …’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit!’ she screamed. ‘I need you, end of story. Either come or fuck off!’

  ‘You’re being unreasonable,’ he said. ‘Hang—’

  There was a buzzing in his ear.

  The young man with dark hair was twenty metres behind Mavros, watching as he spoke on the phone. He could tell by the way the subject handled himself that he was a skilled operator. The information he’d been given suggested that the investigator didn’t carry a weapon and wasn’t particularly good with his fists. All to the good. There were enough violent fools in the city. But Mavros had been asking questions, too many questions. He and the young woman were opening doors that had been sealed for decades, digging up old bones, getting too close to the mother lode. It was his opinion that the Scottish Greek should be snatched and given a stern talking to, perhaps some pain as well. That hadn’t been approved, but tailing him was deemed appropriate. But what would the benefit be if all he did was return to the hotel and stay in for the rest of the night?

  Then again, the young woman might reappear, as she had done on the night they lost her. Her sidekick was a professional and had left them standing by turning right before a light changed to green. There was definitely more to her than met the eye, though a ‘hands-off’ policy on her had been ordered too.

  He thought back to the meeting he’d had with Baruh Natzari in Ayia Triadha. The old man hadn’t seemed to be suicidal. Had someone else got to him? He had been about to check the house the next day when he saw the Cherokee roll up and Mavros and the woman go in. After they’d left he jumped the gate and saw the hanging body. He called it in and was told to touch nothing and get out, after taking all the photos. He didn’t find the one that was required.

  Mavros was gesturing as he talked on his phone and had moved towards the side of the road. It happened before his tail could react. A black car drew up, the back door opened and the investigator was pulled in. A few seconds later the car – a Lexus RX330 – had disappeared into the traffic.

  Fuck! His heart pounding, the young man made the call and prepared himself for a verbal battering.

  ‘What the—’ Mavros doubled over in the back seat as a fist was driven into his abdomen.

  ‘Shut up, Jew-lover. And keep your fucking head down!’

  Mavros had caught a glimpse of the man who grabbed him. His head was shaven and he was wearing a speckled green combat jacket. Now he could see only high-laced cherry coloured boots.

  ‘We’re going to have fun with this one,’ the gorilla said to the men in front.

  ‘Hope so,’ came a voice from the passenger seat. ‘You shouldn’t get your long hair on the TV, fuckwit.’

  Mavros presumed an answer wasn’t required and concentrated on getting his breathing back to normal.

  ‘You know what we do to people like you?’ said the man beside him, pulling his hair. ‘Kneecapping, for a start. Tarring and feathering. Duelling scars, not that you’ll get a sword. Oh, and a long truncheon up your arse, without a drop of lubricant.’

  Mavros held his tongue. These men were foot soldiers, not that any real army would take them. He could only hope that someone higher up the neo-Nazi feeding chain would get involved. No, that would be even worse.

  After about fifteen minutes, the car slowed and took a sharp left turn, ascending a slope and then stopping abruptly. A balaclava was put over his head, the eye and mouth holes to the rear. He inhaled hard to draw air through the wool.

  ‘Come on, hippy.’

  He was pulled out roughly and frog-marched across a level floor. Doors opened ahead and he was eventually pushed down into a seat. His hands and ankles were chained to the metal supports. He could hear two men in the room, talking in low voices; he thought both had been in the car.

  Suddenly the talking stopped and boots stamped together.

  ‘Sir!’ one of them said. ‘Jew-lover, long-haired Communist half-Greek Alexander Mavros, as ordered, sir!’

  A chair was pulled across the floor. Mavros felt warm breath through the wool over his right ear.

  ‘You’ve been very foolish, my friend.’

  Mavros recognised the voice immediately. It belonged to Makis Kalogirou, the Phoenix Rises’ leader.

  ‘Not as foolish as you. Kidnapping is a serious offence. Ah!’

  His hair had been pulled back again.

  ‘Would you like me to cut your throat, smartarse?’

  He felt cold steel on his skin.

  Showing weakness to fascists was not an option he was prepared to consider. ‘Killing defenceless people is what you people are good at,’ he said, heart pounding.

  ‘Would you like to fight me on equal terms?’ The tone was mocking. ‘Choose your weapon.’

  ‘How about toothpicks? They’re about the size of your dick.’

  That earned him another punch in the abdomen. He was hauled back up and felt a sharp edge cut through the balaclava and into his cheek. He managed to confine his reaction to a gasp.

  ‘You’ve got an active tongue,’ Kalogirou said, his mouth close to Mavros’s ear again. ‘How about I hack it out?’

  ‘Feel free. You think I haven’t sent a report about you and your pathetic followers to Brigadier Nikos Kriaras at Athens police HQ?’

  ‘Why would he be interested in me? I haven’t left Thessaloniki for months.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’ve got supporters down there. Some of them firebombed a friend of mine’s house.’

  ‘You can’t prove that.’

  ‘Wait for the forensics report.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What are you and that Jew bitch doing in my city?’

  ‘Kicking the shit out of your witless sidekicks.’

  ‘And wrecking a pickup. Some of those men were badly injured.’

  ‘Men? They looked like blowflies to me.’

  His hair below the balaclava was pulled back again. ‘How about I set some more of them on you?’

  ‘Do what you like. It’s just a power trip for inadequates, the Phoenix Rises. Didn’t it occur to you that giving your rabble a name referring to the Colonels’ junta isn’t exactly a vote winner?’

  ‘People are coming round to our ways of thinking.’

  ‘And what are those? Hitler was a hero, the Third Reich will rise again, foreigners are responsible for all the problems in Greek society, and the Left are traitors?’

  ‘You’re very well informed,’ said the invidious voice in his ear. ‘Maybe you’d like to join. No, I forgot. Your father was a senior Communist and you’re working for a Jew.’

  Mavros couldn’t resist, spurred on by the mention of his old man. He jerked his head sideways and felt his skull crunch into Kalogirou’s nose – a lateral Glasgow kiss. It cost him, though. His belly took more blows and his face was punched hard several times. The blood from his nose made it difficult to breathe.

  ‘That was … foolish.’ Kalogirou’s voice was muffled, presumably because he was staunching the blood fr
om his nose. ‘Tell me what you’re doing here, now!’

  ‘Looking for a Jew. Will that get you off my back?’

  ‘What Jew?’

  ‘One who’s been dead since 1945.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He was pummelled again.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he repeated, after clearing the blood from his mouth.

  ‘Shall we give him the full treatment, sir?’ said one of the gorillas.

  ‘Maybe later. I need to check something.’

  Footsteps moved away and Mavros was left where he was.

  ‘You’re dead,’ said the man who had grabbed him from the pavement. ‘No one hits the chief. You’re fucking dead.’

  Mavros kept quiet, wondering what Kalogirou was doing. Calling Kriaras? Anything was possible.

  After a time the footsteps returned. ‘Listen to this warning. You’ll hear it only once. Take your Jewish cunt and get out of Thessaloniki. If I see either of you again, you’ll end up in the municipal dump, minus dick, eyes, nose, tits, the lot. Understand?’

  Mavros nodded slowly.

  ‘Get him out of here.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where shall we take him?’

  ‘He’s at the Electra Palace, isn’t he? Dump him a couple of hundred metres away in a back street.’ There was harsh laugh. ‘I wonder if they’ll let him in the way he looks.’

  Mavros was hit about the face again, then taken to the car and pushed in. The traffic noise gradually increased as they drove. By the frequent stopping and starting, he could tell they were in the centre. Eventually, after a couple of tight turns, the car pulled up and the door was opened.

  ‘Throw him in that rubbish,’ the driver said.

  He was propelled through the air, landing in an evil-smelling mass.

  ‘Remember, run away to your own city like a good little rat.’ The big man laughed.

  When the car had reversed away, Mavros pulled the balaclava off. He folded it inside out and put it in his pocket in case DNA samples were necessary, then stumbled on to the road. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he saw the seafront. As he headed for the hotel, he made the decision.

  The Phoenix Rises was interested in him and Rachel, and its leader had obviously been told to let him go after warning him off. Why and who by? There must be a link to Aron Samuel. He was staying in Thessaloniki till the case was over, no matter what Niki and the Fat Man said.

  Rachel looked down at Aristotelous Square from the window seat in her room. Her laptop was beside her and she had filed her daily report. Her contact had been keen to proceed that night, but she had declined. They needed more information before striking. He had gone to carry out surveillance from a concealed position.

  She found herself thinking about Alex Mavros. The investigator was smart and dogged, but she didn’t fully trust him. She was hamstrung by her lack of Greek and Judezmo, and she wasn’t sure he was telling her everything. Then again, he had included her in the visit to the customs broker, his hitherto secret source. She was also puzzled by the Communist angle. Why would Aron have got involved, especially when he was so young? And why had his file been hyper-classified? Then there was the fact that Mavros’s friend’s house in Athens had suffered an arson attack. Was that connected to what they were doing up here? The fact was, they were no nearer finding her great-uncle, even though they had dug up a fair amount about him, most of it unpleasant. Had he really been a vicious killer both in and after Auschwitz? It looked that way. And if he was in the city, what was he doing? She called her father and gave him a summary. He took it in and told her to stay on the investigation. She said that Mavros might have to go back to Athens. That was to be avoided at all costs, she was told. Eliezer felt they were getting close.

  From the window she saw a familiar figure moving in a less than straight line across the square. One hand was over his forehead and the other was extended as if he expected to fall at any moment.

  Rachel grabbed her phone and ran to the door.

  Mavros walked down the corridor to his room, Rachel by his side. He had declined her support as his abdomen hurt too much.

  ‘Come to mine,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a first-aid kit. You stink.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They went in and Mavros looked at himself in the mirror, shrugging off his jacket and pulling up his shirt. He prodded gently, grimacing.

  ‘Let me,’ Rachel said, ‘I’ve been trained.’

  ‘On a kibbutz?’

  She stared at him. ‘How did you know?’ She pulled on latex gloves and pressed her fingers over his abdomen. ‘Your ribs aren’t cracked,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘No, they aimed lower.’

  ‘That’s a problem. You might have ruptured something. Does this hurt?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘This?’

  ‘Yes, but not as bad.’

  ‘You need to check for blood in your stool and urine.’

  ‘OK. Has that cut on my cheek stopped bleeding?’

  Rachel put her hand behind his head and brought it slowly forward. ‘No. It needs stitches.’

  ‘Shit. Going to hospital now is the last thing I need.’

  ‘Come to the bathroom. You can’t have a shower, but I’ll wash you. Get those clothes off.’

  Mavros let her clean him up with wet clothes, keeping only his underwear on. The experience was about as sexually arousing as a being scrubbed by a wire brush.

  When Rachel had finished, she took him to the bed. ‘Sit down.’

  A quarter of an hour later, she finished dealing with his wounds. Although she’d used an anaesthetic spray, they still hurt like hell.

  ‘There, that dressing on your cheek will be all right until morning. Don’t sleep on that side.’

  ‘I doubt I’ll be sleeping much.’

  ‘At least your nose isn’t broken.’

  ‘It feels like it is.’

  ‘And none of your teeth are loose. I think that cut above your eye will heal without stitches. We’ll see tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘Well, I’ll see. You’re going to have two swollen and black eyes.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

  ‘The Phoenix Rises. That scumbag Kalogirou.’ He filled her in.

  ‘So are you leaving at first light tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Am I buggery.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He smiled, wincing as his lips stretched. ‘No. We’re stirring things up. I don’t react well to threats.’

  Rachel stripped off her gloves. ‘Neither do I,’ she said, lying back on the bed. ‘Would you like to spend the night here? Purely from a medical point of view. You might take a turn for the worse.’

  Mavros looked at her, trying unsuccessfully to read her dark eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary,’ he replied.

  But he stayed all the same. The bed was wide.

  THIRTY

  So it went on through the 60s and into the 70s. We got older and less fit, Shlomo especially, so we reduced the number of targets each summer. The Nazis were dying of old age and disease too. Eventually I continued on my own, realising that my comrades were in need of peace. At the later killings Shlomo attended, he turned away from the final act. He hadn’t got religion like Zvi – we three were long past the temptations of faith – but he had reached the end of his abilities. There was no shame in that.

  You might wonder what happened in the rest of my life. That is of little significance, but I recognise curiosity when I see it. In my forties I met a much younger woman, who saw something in me that had been buried by decades of harshness and deception. She teased it out, my Gavriella, and nursed me back to the world of feeling. We married and moved away from New York; I had made enough to support us for many lifetimes. Besides, it was getting unsafe in that hive of Jews. We moved to the mid-West and, swathed in love, I suspended my summer trips for several years.

  But like the vampire after centuries in
the tomb, I found my tainted soul still needed blood; and that others were banking on that being the case. Our house and land were a few miles outside a medium-sized city whose name I will keep to myself. One Saturday in the late 60s I was on my way back from the shops – my wife having never learned to drive – when I saw a man standing in the middle of the road that led only to our place. I was immediately suspicious and leant over for the pistol I kept in the glove compartment, racking the slide. Then I drove closer. The window was already rolled down. The man, who was dark-haired and thin, was wearing a coat that was too thick for late spring and his face was covered in sweat.

  ‘Keep your hands out of your pockets,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  To my surprise he answered me in Greek. ‘Mr Samuel, I have been sent by the comrades.’

  He meant the Communist Party. Now I really was shocked. How had they found me and what did they want?

  ‘Are you on your own?’ I asked, still holding my weapon.

  ‘Yes. And I am unarmed.’

  I wasn’t sure about that, and if he was a trained operative he could cause me serious problems with only his hands.

  ‘The comrades have a proposition for you,’ he continued. ‘We must talk.’

  I looked beyond him. The house was still out of view.

  ‘All right. Let me park.’ I left the car at the side of the road and led him into a small wood.

  ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘How about Frizis?’

  As you may know, Mordecai Frizis was a Jewish lieutenant colonel in the Greek Army, who died heroically leading his men in an attack on the Italians during the Albanian campaign.

  ‘You are one of us?’

  He shook his head. ‘But, like all comrades, I grieve for your people’s unjust fate.’

  ‘Words are worthless. What are you doing here?’

  He offered me a cigarette, which I declined. After the Lager I had stopped smoking – that activity was forever part of the horror. ‘Comrade Samuel—’

  ‘Why do you call me that? I have had no connection with the party for over twenty years.’

  ‘Once a comrade, always—’

  ‘No,’ I said, touching the gun in my jacket pocket. ‘I am no longer interested in the revolution. Your Stalin was little better than Hitler.’