The Road to Ithaca

by Ben Pastor

  Without saying it out loud, Bora wondered what chance he had of finding support for an enquiry. Murdered civilians. Whatever it’s really about, things don’t look promising; it’ll be like pulling teeth. There’s little chance truth will be a question of concordance with events or anything else… Professor Heidegger notwithstanding. He chose not to peek inside the folder, possibly the only way to avoid having second thoughts. “How much time do I have? I’m expected back in Moscow.”

  “We know where you’re really expected, Bora. But that’s three weeks away. Ambassador Count von der Schulenburg is au courant, to use diplomatic French. Colonel Krebs also, and though he isn’t at all happy about it, as if wine mattered more than risking an international incident with Switzerland, he lets you off your embassy hook for a week.” Busch replaced the empty bottle with a full one, which he opened and disposed of in one long gulp. Stiffness and protocol were not compatible with a belch, and in fact he amicably let go of both. “I’m going to take a leak now. Please review the stuff here and give it back. The photos you can keep, we’ve got copies. Goes without saying that by now it’s well beyond eyes only.” Halfway to the dining-hall door, he wagged his forefinger one centimetre either way. “And report back here when you’re done at the depot: there’s more to discuss. We’ll find you lodgings somewhere in this building.”

  In the few minutes he was alone in the room, Bora read the physician’s extended report to the head of the 7th Airborne Division. When the major walked back in refreshed, drying his hands on a handkerchief, the folder had already been returned to the desk.

  “Questions, Rittmeister?”

  “I’ll have them when I report back, sir.”

  “Good. Since you’ll want to get around independently from the Luftwaffe authorities, I’ll work on procuring you a local guide. Without one, you stand to have your head blown off within a mile of the city wall. Come, I’ll see you out and point you towards the depot.” In the lobby, where the wintry glitter of broken glass resembled and made him long for ice and anything cold, Busch did a sudden about-turn. “In other matters, not altogether unrelated, we lost the von Blücher boys, ‘Old Forwards’’ descendants, all in one day.”

  Bora halted so as not to collide with the major. “Good God, the eldest was born three or four years after me. I doubt the youngest was out of secondary school.”

  “Right. Well, they lived up – or died up – to their ancestor’s Napoleonic fame. It seems they tried to rescue one another under enemy fire, and fell in succession. That’s all the details we have for now. Two were recovered; we’re still looking for the body of the seventeen-year-old.” Busch resumed walking. On the threshold he finished the commentary, staring at the sea. “That, too, is Crete today.”

  10.50 a.m. Written while sitting at the edge of a fountain, in a square of Iraklion (or Hiraklion, Heraklion, Chandax, Kandyie, Candia, Megalokastro: the town goes by more names than any place has a right to have).

  Half an hour ago, when I reported back from the depot, Major Busch wasn’t at the Megaron, so I’m to try again in ten minutes. I can’t believe my good fortune. There I was at dawn, mortified at sitting in good health inside an ambulance plane, and on the spur of the moment I get to risk my neck! To date, the worst thing that has happened to me was having my skull cracked by a rock in Poland. (Peter says I haven’t been the same since, which of course is pure nonsense. It wasn’t rocks that opened my eyes in Poland.)

  To summarize things, a British POW accuses German soldiers (First Battalion, 1st Airborne Regiment, 7th Flieger Division) of killing five civilians without an apparent motive in the Cretan interior on 30 May. The matter is deplorable in itself, but not enough to justify the attention (I’m not saying that of the Red Cross, but the Reichskommissar’s). Details will no doubt follow regarding the victims’ identities. Immediate complications, instead, come to mind: the Englishman who actually took the photos is not accessible; we only have a second-hand report from the officer who heard his story, still detained; the crime scene – if that’s the right term – lies at some distance from the city, in a countryside all but pacified. How conceivable is it that alternative culprits pop up, or something else exonerates the paratroopers in a week’s time, if at all? Perhaps the whole thing is meant as a show of concern, a flurry of activity to assure the Reichskommissar (and/or the IRC) that we’ve done everything possible under the circumstances.

  Meanwhile, among the creature comforts I was given by an assistant of Major Busch’s are: the ubiquitous Nivea cream (!), which I don’t plan on using, salt tablets, a collapsible drinking cup, a first aid kit and a British archaeological handbook about the island. The latter surprised me at first, but it didn’t take me long to appreciate the use of it: I can see it’s got detailed information about Crete’s geography and the state of the roads (none of them paved in the interior as far as I can tell), and additional maps. It also abounds of course in artistic and architectural data regarding the island’s Minoan and Mycenaean past. I was hoping for a more practical guidebook, but I’ll work with what I have, and maybe learn something in the process. It’s by an Englishman gone native, a John Pendlebury, MA, FSA, who seems to have forsaken the trowel for the submachine gun (an SOE operative? Ten to one) and vanished – or was killed – outside Iraklion’s walls a few days ago.

  At the former CreForce depot I secured the best provisions, including a Belgian-made 640 pistol (that is, Browning High Power, the sort of weapon I’d kill for, and did get to use in Spain). Also: acceptable clothing, a map case, German mountain Jäger ankle boots (top quality, cleats and forty-four studs under the soles), etc… I’m only missing the fairy tale’s thieving penny, which comes back to you when you pay with it, and brings along all the money in the other’s pocket. If I manage not to be dragged in front of a German firing squad for wearing parts of an enemy uniform, it’ll be strange but enthusing. I’m armed, equipped, have a rucksack. Now I only need my local scout – hopefully someone who understands something else other than a Greek dialect, even broken Italian.

  It’s hard not to think of Graf von Blücher’s sons, three sunny lads if ever there were, from a long line of men fallen in 200 years of wars. I wonder if their poor mother has been told already, or goes about her days thinking them alive and well. Before leaving for the Polish campaign, I asked specifically that any bad news regarding me should go to my stepfather, the general. It’ll be up to him to tell Mother and Dikta.

  Time’s up, must be off to the Megaron again.

  “Frances L. Allen: you mean Francis, right?”

  A dusty telephone had appeared on the crowded desk since Bora’s last visit. Busch answered while wiping the cradle and dial with the same handkerchief he’d used as a towel. “No, it’s a she. Worked with that Pendlebury fellow, knows every rock and tree in Crete, speaks Greek like a native.” He stretched the handset across to Bora. “Will you please untangle the cord? Thank you. She isn’t a looker either, so things ought to remain businesslike between you.”

  “They would regardless, Herr Major.”

  Busch urbanely swallowed a burp. “Maybe. I go by my old Classics: aside from that gadabout Ulysses who screwed everything he met on his way home, even prim and proper Theseus forsook his new Cretan wife after killing the Minotaur, and she’d helped him exit the maze!” He took back the handset and nestled it in the cradle. “Well, what do you say?”

  Bora looked up from the scrap of paper with the woman’s name written on it. “I wasn’t expecting a US national, male or female, to be my guide. I’ll take what there is, especially if I have to travel to the interior. What else should I know about the lady?”

  “She’s from Texas, married to a Greek presently dead or run off – I think the latter, possibly sailed away with the Brits. Politically unsound. A communist, I think. We told her he’s severely wounded and in a German hospital on the mainland, depending on our good graces for his life. Otherwise, she might try to leave you in the lurch to go after him. Whatever you do, make s
ure you don’t let on he could be somewhere in the hills; you’d be signing your death warrant.”

  “I see. Damn it, at least Theseus could trust Ariadne’s thread to find his way.”

  “You can’t. Don’t quote me, but if she pulls a fast one, don’t limit yourself to leaving her behind as he did: we can’t afford witnesses, so – American or not – shoot to kill.”

  “Understood.”

  “She’s being driven now from a gathering point for foreign nationals near Chanià. I’ll introduce you this evening.” Both Busches – real and mirrored – pulled back in the chair and loosened their collars. “We – well, invited her to be our guest in Iraklion on 1 May, after news of the massacre began to circulate. She has been informed she’s to assist you in your movements. What? I can’t tell from your poker face whether you’re pleased, displeased, or equanimous about your new task. Here, a free gadget to sweeten the pill a little.” Out of a drawer, a khaki-coloured glasses case was fished out and tossed Bora’s way. “Courtesy of an RAF pilot from 30 Squadron, who left them on the runway at Maleme. US-made, unusual green lenses, hope you won’t mind. I understand them to be comparable to German quality. At least you won’t go blind.”

  Bora recognized the coveted American brand. Quickly he took the sunglasses out and examined them. “Thank you, Herr Major.”

  “Enjoy. Now we’ll make a few hairy phone calls – or not.” A frustrated slamming down of the handset followed. Busch surged from his chair, and so did his mirrored self. “Sergeant! Damned telephone won’t work! Get back here and fix it on the double! All right, Bora, your questions first.”

  “The basics: I need to know who actually witnessed the incident, the identity of the victims, the name of my counterpart in the First Battalion, and when and where I may meet the British officer who surrendered the camera to us.”

  “Fair enough. Come, let’s take a walk outside while they fix that thing. I’ve got a bad back; can’t sit too long anyway.”

  Once outside, they veered away from the harbour and down a crooked street that led downtown. Bora had walked it returning from the depot (a faint, sweetish smell of carcasses still buried under rubble, a stable with a dead donkey in it, wild-looking cats squatting on demolished windowsills). And then, wrought iron balconies, narrow pavements, torn canvas awnings. Busch strolled along with his sickle-step and perplexed eyebrow. “The victims were not a family in the common sense of the word, Bora, or rather they were such in the Latin sense of a familia comprised of master and servants. The woman was a housekeeper and the young men hired hands – all locals working for Dr Professor Alois Villiger, fifty-nine, a Swiss national.” He pulled out of his inner pocket a grey-blue passport, which he handed to Bora. “You can keep this. See for yourself: a scholar and connoisseur of antiquity.”

  Bora eyed a few pages of the document and pocketed it. “Like half of the foreign intellectuals wintering in Crete, as far as I know.”

  “…Point taken. He was also an expert on Germanic ancestry and a consultant to the Ahnenerbe, a personal friend to Reichskommissar Himmler, who will blow his top if he learns that the Air Force shot him dead.”

  “Ah.” Bora’s heart skipped a beat. Even under the shade of his visor, the dazzle of the street was insufferable. Etiquette forbade the wearing of sunglasses while speaking to a superior, so he looked down to protect his eyes and hide his surprise. Despite the difference in the light, smells, temperature and street noises, the moment he blinked other odours and sounds flooded in: the liquor factory behind the hotel, smoke from the distant steelworks, trolleys and buses rattling along Gorky Boulevard. The Kremlin carillon chiming The Internationale. Maggie Bourke-White’s lilac scenting the hallway. In a bewildering flash he was back in Moscow, and at the same time wondering what he was doing here, being given such news. He had to snap out of it to come up with a reply.

  “Forgive me for being cynical, Major Busch. All you’d really need, then, is to dispose of however many copies of the photos you have, and let it go as an unfortunate, unresolved instance of civilian casualties.”

  “Except that the British officer will seek out the International Red Cross if its personnel don’t fly in before he does. His name is Sinclair, Patrick K., a first lieutenant in the Leicestershire Regiment, 14th Infantry Brigade.”

  “Sinclair. A Scotsman?”

  “Don’t know. But he’s determined, and unless we’re ready to silence him too, the cat’s out of the bag one way or another. Having destroyed photographic evidence would only make things worse then.”

  Bora made a dutiful mental note of the odd expression, silence him too. “Any news of the actual witness?”

  “No. We don’t even have a full name for him yet, though we might soon. ‘Sergeant Major Powell’ is how Lieutenant Sinclair identified him. He managed to slip off and take to the mountains. Both he and Sinclair were in a queue under guard. There was an excess of prisoners in that particular spot, so in the confusion a handful darted away. Of those the guards fired after, three were shot and killed right off. Two may have been wounded: they leapt clear out of sight. What’s important is the roll of film, you’ll agree.”

  “I agree to a point. Where’s the camera?”

  “We lost track of it after the photos were developed for the War Crimes Bureau. We know it was a non-professional affair, a small Kodak such as even we use.”

  “Does Lieutenant Sinclair know what’s in the photos?”

  “We didn’t show them to him, but yes: Powell told him how the contents of the camera supported his story. Sinclair surrendered the camera to us only against assurance the photos would be developed. He insisted on seeing the appropriate authority as well, which is how he got to make his report to Dr Unger of the War Crimes Bureau on 31 May. Unger had the photographic prints made, and following the directions Sinclair received from the actual witness, visited the crime scene on the same day. As you read, the bodies were removed on Saturday after Cretan police arrived on the scene.” A blue awning, deeply sagging but still intact, promised some respite from the sun. Followed by Bora, the major withdrew to it and stood in the shade, by the entrance of an empty shop.

  “When will I be able to interrogate Sinclair, Herr Major?”

  “It might not be feasible to get him here from the internment camp until the morning. He was one of the Brits assigned to Crete well before the invasion, so they’ll be grilling him for information. Stayed behind near Iraklion with two men to allow the bulk of his unit to withdraw safely, and paid for it by falling prisoner himself. Remember to do the same, should you find yourself in similar circumstances, Rittmeister. Between now and tomorrow I’ll schedule other meetings for you. The day is young.” Falling prisoner was nothing Bora was remotely contemplating at this time. He prudently faced the street. No local residents were in sight. The town must have been evacuated for the most part; German vehicles and personnel had taken over for now. They’d eventually migrate back from the countryside, the elders and women of Iraklion, but few of the healthy men: they would do what Frances Allen’s husband had done: sail away or take to the mountains with shotgun in hand. Then again, some might have stayed in town, hiding in wait for the distracted invader with his back to the street.

  Bora said, “I’m curious to hear Sinclair’s point of view, or rather our camera-toting Powell’s, through him, on why paratroopers should break in to kill unarmed civilians. Strictly between us, I understand a trained commando bursting in with guns blazing if they were under orders of some kind or acted on a tip. Is there a report of valuables in the villa, antiquities and the like?”

  “On the contrary.”

  A warm breath of wind from across the street brought the stench of something dead and irretrievable in the devastation of a building. Bora couldn’t help turning his face, but not the major. Busch only perspired heavily, as if all he’d drunk thus far was oozing out of his pores. He gave the impression that one could squeeze him dry like a sponge, and that sunlight might shrink him to nothing. He sa
id, “Villiger kept files, choice artefacts and research funds in a vault of the National Bank of Greece here in town. The Reichskommissar himself gave him orders in that regard. Come, Rittmeister, let’s keep walking that way; there’s a street-side canteen where we can get something cool.”

  They continued as far as, and then went past, the captured depot, a point beyond which Bora hadn’t yet ventured. More and more, the street resembled a funnel of liquid sunlight; its narrowness crowded with litter and vehicles dissolved, human shapes melted into it. Purgatory must be something like this, Bora thought, a cramped pass that if we only slide through it leads to the Throne of God. But there’ll be no stench of death there. Grounding himself was still hard; he made an effort to stick to business, such as it had become in the last three hours.

  “Herr Major, according to the extended report the shells recovered from the crime scene are 9×19 mm Parabellum, consistent with the MAB 38 submachine gun our paratroopers are known to employ. We have photographs. In the remote event I could prove that Germans have nothing to do with killing a Swiss national, it’s doubtful I’d have time and opportunity to discover the actual culprits. What then?”

  Thankfully, they turned into a shady lane, away from the heat. To all appearances, Busch’s interest was drawn to a modest facade whose entrance was marked by an overhang of corrugated iron. Nothing but debris remained of the house next door, pulverized by a direct hit. A forlorn string of braided garlic crowned plaster and broken tiles, making it look like a vampire’s final resting place. Busch walked and said nothing. Bora, however, understood from his silence that a surrogate plan was afoot in case of failure. A stab of impatience prompted him to go beyond tact. “Since the major doesn’t seem inclined to discuss the likely alternative, I will venture a guess: blaming the locals and carrying out a reprisal on trumped-up charges flies square in the face of the War Crimes Bureau and its interest in this matter. It’s counterproductive; it’ll further exacerbate sentiments against us on the island at a very bad time. I’ll be no part of it.”