Aphrodite's Smile

by Stuart Harrison

  They were taken to Vathy and imprisoned in the basement of the old mansion on the waterfront which the Germans had commandeered as their headquarters when they had arrived on the island. Locked away in the darkness, Kounidis and Metkas heard the sound of vehicles, orders shouted and men running. Occasionally they heard the crack of rifle fire. They discovered later that a curfew had immediately been imposed. Meetings between groups of more than two people were banned, and patrols stopped everybody to question them. Houses were searched at gunpoint. The soldiers no longer shouldered their rifles. When they looked into the faces of the islanders they had drunk with, had laughed with and shared their food with, they saw only people who had planned to kill them. They felt betrayed, as if they, the German occupiers, were guests who had been treated vilely by their hosts. A strange irony.

  Kounidis and Metkas were held for thirty-six hours before the bolts were drawn on the heavy wooden door and they were marched outside at gunpoint. When they emerged blinking into the morning light, Kounidis fully expected that they would be shot. Though Metkas seemed calm, even fatalistic, Kounidis could not stop himself from shaking. He was young. Only nineteen. He had taken no part in the discussions after Metkas had arrived and assumed command of the Resistance on the island, though he had listened as some of the men had argued politely that perhaps it was unnecessary to attack the garrison as it was clear that the Germans would soon leave as they were losing the war. Metkas, however, had been adamant that it was their duty to kill the fascist invaders.

  The sky to the west in the direction of Kephalonia was smudged with dark brown and grey smoke. Kounidis and Metkas exchanged glances. The entire German garrison in Vathy had been assembled and a convoy of trucks filled with soldiers and supplies was waiting in the street outside the mansion gates.

  Hauptmann Hassel stood beside his patrol car overseeing the final stages of the evacuation. His uniform was immaculate, his boots gleamed. He stood with his feet apart and his hands clasped behind his back, and Kounidis was struck by how much older he looked. As if he had aged years overnight. But it was his bearing that was most striking of all. He held himself stiffly and, when he looked upon his prisoners as they were led towards one of the trucks, his eyes were cold.

  Kounidis and Metkas were bundled into a truck. Two soldiers brought another man towards them, his feet dragging in the dirt. Even when he was thrown into the truck Kounidis didn’t recognise him at first. They tried to help him, but the man was only partly conscious. He had been beaten badly and one of his eyes had been smashed to a bloody pulp. His teeth were gone, both his knees smashed. With shock Kounidis saw that it was the taverna owner.

  The convoy drove north along the coast road. It turned at the foot of the mountain to follow the perilous route towards the monastery.

  When the trucks arrived, the soldiers jumped down and brought out the monks who were then lined up against a wall in the courtyard. While a few of the soldiers guarded them with machine guns, the others went inside the buildings and began to carry out anything which appeared to be of any value. They took everything. Pictures, dishes, candle holders, even the ceremonial vestments which were decorated with jewels, though in reality these were coloured glass. The very last thing they carried out was the statue of the Panaghia. By the time the Germans left, they had stripped the monastery bare.

  The convoy reached Frikes late that afternoon. A German gunboat lay at anchor in the harbour. The villagers had been driven from their homes and Metkas and Kounidis were imprisoned with the dying taverna owner in a house on the waterfront. All night they could hear the sounds of small boats ferrying everything the Germans could take with them out to the Antounnetta. Anything that was to be left behind was destroyed. Now and then they heard the muffled thump of an explosion and the occasional crack of rifle shots. Houses and shops were looted and burned and the acrid smell of smoke lay heavy in the air.

  A few hours before dawn the door to their makeshift prison opened and two soldiers entered and stood stiffly at attention. Hassel entered followed by an officer wearing the black uniform of the SS. Metkas recognised him at once as Bergen.

  Bergen appeared colourless, as if he had assiduously avoided the Greek sun. He glanced dismissively at Kounidis, who was sitting with the unconscious taverna owner, but when he looked at Metkas his lips stretched into a thin smile, though his pale eyes were frighteningly devoid of expression. He and Hassel conferred in German, and then without another glance at the prisoners the two officers left.

  When they were alone again Kounidis asked what Metkas thought would happen to them. The older man replied that he expected they would be taken to Patras on the mainland. When Kounidis asked why, Metkas looked at him and then rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. He said that they must be brave, though even Metkas was unable to conceal his fear. Everybody knew what happened to people who ended up in the hands of the SS at Patras. What the taverna owner had suffered was nothing compared to the torture that the SS were capable of.

  Several hours before the sun rose on the following day, soldiers came for them again. They were marched to the wharf and ordered into a small boat. As they were taken across the harbour towards the gunboat, Kounidis looked back at the cliffs, convinced that he was seeing his homeland for the last time. There were fires in the town and along the waterfront. The flames were reflected in the water, and from their light he could see smoke rising into the sky.

  The last boat to leave was the one which carried Hassel. As he climbed down he did not look back at the lone figure of Julia Zannas who stood on the wharf. Though he had brought her to Frikes, now she was to be left behind. Though Metkas stared at her with hate and fury burning in his eyes, Alkimos Kounidis felt a stirring of pity for her. He did not understand what she had done, but he had never seen anyone who looked so utterly alone as she did at that moment.

  The attack began as they were climbing aboard the Antounnetta. Kounidis learned later that men had come from Kephalonia when they heard that Metkas had been captured. They brought with them seasoned fighters and weapons. Their leaders planned to sink the gunboat before it could leave the harbour. They launched their attack from the cliff above the harbour, opening fire with mortars and machine guns.

  Kounidis was thrown to the deck with the first explosion which came from a mortar hitting the forward gun, and that was followed almost immediately by a second, even bigger explosion. He felt the heat from the blast singe his hair and scorch his face.

  The harbour was suddenly lit as bright as day with orange flame. Men screamed. Debris and bodies were thrown into the air, the water hissed as red-hot metal fell like rain. A machine gun opened up and bullets slammed into metal plating, whining as they ricocheted. The deck shook with the heavy thud of explosions. From the cliff, the flash of muzzle fire was almost continuous, blinking on and off. Mortar shells exploded and fountains of water erupted like geysers. A soldier was suddenly thrown against the structure behind Kounidis, his uniform shredded and blood-soaked as he crumpled like a pile of discarded clothing.

  The Antounnetta, though damaged, returned fire. There were fires burning toward the bow, but the stern gun was undamaged and amid the smoke and confusion an explosion tore into the cliff above the town. The deck began to hum as the engines were started. The taverna owner was gone, lost overboard during the first seconds of the attack, but Metkas and Kounidis crawled through an open doorway. A German naval officer appeared, his face blackened by smoke and one arm hanging uselessly by his side, the sleeve of his uniform soaked with blood. He looked surprised to see them, then said something in German and pointed a pistol at them before slumping down to lean against the bulkhead, his face strained with pain and shock. He rested his good arm on his knee and kept the pistol trained on them. With a gesture he conveyed that they should put their hands on their heads, and when they were slow to respond he pointed the gun directly at Metkas’s face.

  For the next hour or so they could only sit helplessly as the vessel limped from the harbou
r and the sound of firing gradually eased as the Antounnetta moved out of range.

  They saw soldiers running past on the deck outside to fight the fires. Eventually, a sailor, almost black from smoke, shoved his head through the door and when he saw the three of them he spoke to the officer and returned a few minutes later with two more men. Metkas and Kounidis were taken down a ladder and shoved into a bare cabin, the door locked behind them.

  For what seemed like hours they listened to the unsteady beat of the engines. The smell of smoke and oil grew steadily worse, and a murky haze slowly leaked into the cabin. At one point the engines stopped for quite a long time, but eventually they started again. Within minutes the ship rocked with the force of an explosion.

  When the door opened it was clear that the boat was sinking. They could feel it wallowing as it took on water. They were dragged onto the deck coughing and choking from the smoke and fumes. Hassel and Bergen were waiting for them. The sky was black, the sea lurching. Several lifeboats were already in the water full of men and, as soon as Kounidis saw them, he knew there would be no place for him or Metkas. Bergen glanced at them and spoke to Hassel and then he turned and began to climb down to one of the boats. Hassel ordered the last of his soldiers to follow and, as they climbed over the rail, he took his pistol from the holster on his belt.

  The lifeboats had all moved away, except for the last one. One of the sailors shouted something, no doubt afraid of being dragged down when the Antounnetta went under. Calmly Hassel raised his arm and fired a single shot. Metkas jerked, his head snapped back, blood spraying from his wound. Even as he began to fall the gun was swinging towards Kounidis and, in that moment, he acted out of instinct. He leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Hassel’s waist. He heard a shot, which missed him by so little he swore he felt the heat of the bullet, then they both fell to the deck as the ship began to sink at the bow. The deck tilted and as they slid towards the water Kounidis crashed into the bulkhead. The breath was driven from him as he went under, suddenly alone. When he surfaced, he was gasping for air. He began to swim as hard as he could to escape the sinking ship. He didn’t look back until his arms felt like lead and he could hardly breathe. As he rose and fell on the swell, he searched in the darkness for the lifeboats but they were already gone, as was the Antounnetta. There was no sign of Hassel.

  For many hours Kounidis floated with the tide, sometimes swimming, but mostly just trying to stay afloat. He had no idea where he was until it began to get light, then he could see land to the west and the current was carrying him closer. Eventually, exhausted and freezing, half dead, he was washed up on the southern tip of Kephalonia.

  TWELVE

  After Kounidis had finished speaking, Eleni materialised to turn up the lamp. I wondered whether she had been lingering nearby, waiting for her cue. Alex was gazing into the darkness. Kounidis had gone to great lengths to bring his story to life. The combination of ouzo and wine, the subtle tension of anticipation he’d built by deliberately avoiding the subject earlier in the day, and even the lighting and the setting all seemed to have been arranged to add drama to his account. But when I saw the way he was observing Alex, I wondered if there was another reason for his preparations. Perhaps he had endeavoured, rather than simply to repeat the facts of the events themselves, to recreate some echo of the emotions, some sense of what had happened so that Alex might have a glimpse at least of why feelings among the older islanders still ran so close to the surface after all this time.

  Eventually Alex returned to us. She smiled self-consciously. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Kounidis. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

  ‘Did you ever see Julia again?’ I asked.

  ‘No. She left the island soon afterwards and lived for a short time on Kephalonia. But it did not take long for people there to learn who she was.’ He hesitated diplomatically. ‘Many people lost sons and fathers during the war. Sometimes entire families. Often people made little distinction between those who collaborated, no matter what the circumstances. Julia was lucky to survive. Many in her situation elsewhere did not. The civil war that broke out once the Germans had gone probably helped her. In the confusion there were other targets.’

  It was late and Kounidis looked drained. I imagined retelling the story must have taken its toll on him too. He had glossed over his own part in it, but there must have been many times when he had been afraid, when he had thought that his next breath would be his last. He had seen men killed, had witnessed first-hand the cruelty of Hassel’s revenge on the people of Ithaca. Those things must have affected him. I even wondered if they had in some way contributed to his ambition, to the drive which had seen him in later years leave the island and eventually become the man he was now, and if the failure of his marriage could be traced to the psychological impact of his trauma. Perhaps he had buried himself in his work to escape his memories.

  He bade us goodnight, and after he had gone to bed, Eleni again appeared to clear up. She didn’t speak to us and we took her efficiency as a hint that we too shouldn’t linger. When we reached Alex’s room I asked her if she was feeling all right and she nodded and managed a smile of sorts.

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I went to my own room and stood by the open window. Outside cicadas creaked, but otherwise the night was still. Moonlight had washed the sea silver-grey and the sky seemed alive with stars. I was thinking about the evening and about Alex. I was tempted to go and knock at her door but before I could make up my mind I heard a tap at my own door and when I opened it Alex stood outside.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  We sat by the window. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Alex said eventually. ‘I was wondering if Nana ever regretted the decision she made.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think she did.’ My surprise must have been obvious. ‘You think what she did was wrong don’t you?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I understand it. But it’s hard to separate the decision from the consequences.’

  ‘But there would have been consequences either way. We don’t know what would have happened if she had let those men kill Hassel. If Metkas and his men had wiped out the entire garrison, surely Bergen would have taken reprisals.’

  ‘I suppose that’s probably true,’ I admitted.

  ‘I think what she did was brave.’

  ‘Whatever decision she made would have been courageous,’ I conceded.

  ‘She chose what was right. What they did was cynical,’ Alex said. ‘What could be worse than encouraging her to fall in love with Hassel, and that’s more or less what they did, and then expecting her to take part in his murder?’

  ‘I doubt that anyone expected her to fall in love.’

  ‘How could they blindly think he would fall in love with her without knowing there was a risk she would feel the same way about him?’

  I had to admit she had a point, but in the end it came down to a question of loyalties. ‘I can’t agree with her decision because I can’t discount what happened afterwards,’ I explained. ‘And maybe Julia couldn’t either. Maybe she wouldn’t have made the same decision again if she had had the chance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She told your mother she was raped. Maybe it was true. Maybe Hassel thought she’d known about the plan all along but only changed her mind at the last moment. He must have been angry. He felt betrayed. Once he thought about it maybe he felt like that about Julia as well.’

  Alex shook her head. ‘They were in love. She still loved him when she died, after all those years. She couldn’t have felt that way if he’d raped her.’

  ‘Then why tell your mother that? To protect his family?’

  ‘Possibly. Or maybe because she was ashamed of the way she felt. She went against everything that she had ever been taught about family and the church. You can’t just wipe that kind of indoctrina
tion away, can you? She saw what he did to the taverna owner. And later she must have heard that he killed Metkas and almost killed Mr Kounidis. But she still loved him.’

  ‘How could she? How could she love a man like that?’

  ‘Because that wasn’t all he was. She fell in love with the man who came to her village every day for months just so that he could catch sight of her. The man she walked with on the hillside. They were both young. To her he wasn’t just a soldier, he was a gentle, lonely young man who made her heart beat faster every time he looked at her. And up until the point where the guerrillas tried to kill him, he had done his best for the people of Ithaca. Afterwards she saw another side of him.’

  ‘That’s the part I don’t understand,’ I argued. ‘Even after she knew what he was capable of, you believe she still loved him?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever done anything you’re not proud of?’

  I could have answered glibly that I’d never tortured anyone, but I understood what she was getting at. There had been a war on and under those circumstances the normal rules don’t apply however much people might want to believe that they do.

  ‘It’s like asking a wife whose husband goes to prison for some violent crime, maybe even killing somebody in a heated argument, does she still love him?’ Alex reasoned. ‘She might say that she does because she knows that one violent act doesn’t define entirely who he is.’

  Alex took something from her pocket. It was the piece of folded paper on which she’d copied the graffiti from the ruin of her grandmother’s house in Exoghi.

  ‘I found out what it means,’ she said. ‘Nazi whore.’ She crumpled it in her hand.

  It was easy to see why Julia had been branded a traitor. Perhaps it was unfair given the circumstances, but then who could blame the people of Ithaca given the moral complexities of what had occurred? It was a case of cause and effect. I still couldn’t understand how Julia could have continued to love Hassel after what he’d done, but whatever the rights and wrongs, at least Alex knew the truth.