‘You just press the button on top.’
Belatedly I realised that the English couple were waiting patiently, staring with fixed, vaguely puzzled smiles. ‘Sorry.’ I clicked the shutter and handed the camera back.
‘Looks like another nice day,’ the man said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It does.’
When the ferry arrived at Efimia, I took a taxi across the island to Argostoli. The museum was housed in a building on the hillside above the harbour. I asked for Michael Dova and was shown to an office in the administrative wing where Dova rose from his desk to greet me warmly. He was a neat, thin man, his manner friendly.
‘Kalimera, Mr French, I am very pleased to meet you. Can I offer you something to drink? Some coffee perhaps.’
‘Thanks, coffee would be great.’
He put a pot on a small stove in the corner of the room. His office was spacious though it still managed to look cluttered. Every available surface was either crammed with books and papers or else littered with carvings and clay figures. Boxes were stacked on the floor, some with the tops open, spilling paper straw onto the carpet.
‘Forgive me,’ Dova said as he moved some papers from a chair. ‘As you can see we are short of space.’ He viewed the surrounding chaos with mild despair, then shrugged, dismissing that which he could do nothing about. ‘I was very glad when Irene telephoned to say that you were coming. By the way, please accept my condolences. I was saddened to hear of your father’s death. I had the greatest respect for him.’
‘Thank you. Did you know him well, Mr Dova?’
‘Yes quite well, I think. We were colleagues of course. However I think it would be true to say that we were also friends. Naturally we shared many common interests. In fact we worked together on various excavations.’
‘On Ithaca?’
‘Yes. Also here on Kephalonia and some of the other islands. But mostly on Ithaca. As I am sure you are aware, your father’s great hope was to discover the site of Aphrodite’s Temple. Though I believe he mentioned that you do not share his passion for archaeology.’
‘That’s true. But actually I want to ask you about the temple. I found a news clipping in my father’s study.’ I took it out and showed it to him. ‘This picture was taken at the opening of an exhibit earlier this year I understand.’
‘Ah yes. The Dracoulis exhibit. The artefacts you see here came from the site of the temple. You are aware of the story?’
‘I know they’ve been lost since the war.’
‘Yes that is correct. In fact until they came to light in a Swiss collection last year there was actually no proof that they even existed.’
I told Dova I’d read the book I’d found in my father’s study, so I knew about the letter Dracoulis had written to his sister. The man my father was talking to in the newspaper picture I now saw was Dova himself, but I asked him about the other man in the background, who I now knew had been murdered. ‘Do you know who this is?’
Dova peered carefully and then found a magnifying glass. ‘Ah, yes. I remember him. A colleague of your father’s from Germany I believe.’
‘My father knew him?’
‘Yes, of course. He asked me if he could bring a guest to the opening. It was by invitation you understand. Not a public occasion. Naturally I agreed.’
‘So they came together from Ithaca?’
‘Actually no. I invited your father to the opening some months earlier. I hoped that the occasion might lift his spirits. You are aware that your father had been rather depressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a great shame. Your father was a dedicated man, Mr French, but I think that even he was worn down by the years of searching and disappointment. I was quite worried about him. I asked him to come and stay at my house for a few days before the opening. He did not seem his old self.’
I thought I detected a tactful euphemism in Dova’s choice of description. ‘You mean he was drinking?’
‘He was rather unhappy I think.’ He paused. ‘I was aware that Irene and your father were no longer living together. And he was not working. I believe that he felt his life no longer had any purpose. But, I am happy to say that his visit here appeared to restore his spirits, as I had hoped that it would. In fact I believe that meeting this colleague of his from Germany had a very beneficial effect.’
‘They met here?’
‘In Argostoli yes. Quite by chance I understand.’
‘This man, do you remember his name?’
Dova frowned and went to a drawer in his desk. ‘I wrote it down, and the address where he was staying because I promised that I would send him some information. Let me see, now where did I put it. Ah yes.’ He produced a diary and leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘There, Kohl. Johann Kohl. The Hotel Ionnis.’
I was disappointed. I stared at the name.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ Dova asked, looking concerned.
I shook my head. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I thought he was somebody else. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the name Eric Schmidt by any chance?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Dova went to check on the coffee and I took the opportunity to write down the name of the hotel.
‘You say my father’s spirits improved after he met this man Kohl,’ I said when Dova returned with our coffee. It was strong and steaming hot.
‘Yes, the transformation was quite remarkable. I put it down in part to his seeing the Dracoulis artefacts first-hand of course. It is a rather unique collection and it proves beyond doubt that the temple does actually exist. But also meeting this old colleague seemed to cheer your father up.’
‘Do you know much about him?’
‘Actually very little. Your father was very vague about how they knew one another. I formed the impression that it was from a dig that they worked on together some years ago.’ Dova frowned thoughtfully. ‘At the time I was somewhat busy with the opening you understand, so I did not have much opportunity to speak to Mr Kohl.’
‘But?’ I asked, sensing that there was something else.
‘I may be wrong, but he did not seem like somebody that I would expect your father to know professionally.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The few times I spoke to him, I felt actually that archaeology was not his field. He did not even strike me as being an academic type. Once or twice, when I mentioned some recent find which had been reported internationally, I suspected that he did not know what I was talking about.’ Dova shrugged apologetically. ‘Of course, it may merely have been his manner.’
‘Could he have been an antiquities dealer?’ I suggested.
Dova was surprised at the idea. ‘I suppose it is possible. But most of the dealers I have met are very knowledgeable.’
‘And this man wasn’t?’
‘He struck me as rather uneducated. But I may be entirely mistaken,’ Dova added hurriedly. ‘As I mentioned, I was very distracted at the time, and your father certainly spent a great deal of time with this man. I am sure they must have shared a great many interests.’
I wondered what those interests were exactly. ‘Do you have any idea what they discussed?’
‘From what I observed, they were primarily interested in the Dracoulis exhibit.’ Dova gestured to a photograph on the wall. It was very old, in sepia tones, and was of a building which I didn’t recognise. ‘That is the original museum here in Argostoli, where Dracoulis was the curator until he died during the war. It was completely destroyed during the earthquake which devastated these islands in 1953.’ He stood up from behind his desk. ‘Perhaps you would like to view the exhibit for yourself? I would be happy to show you.’
I was certainly curious, and so we left his office and followed a corridor which led to the public areas of the museum. The building had been designed as a series of connecting rooms over two floors, separated into two wings with a central display hall in each. The ceilings were high, to give a feeling of light and space, an
d the exhibits were displayed around the walls, larger pieces mounted on plinths. As Dova led the way, he explained how the artefacts had ended up in Switzerland.
‘During the war the original museum was systematically looted by the Germans. It is a well-documented event. The Germans were very thorough in that regard, even when they were stealing,’ he noted wryly. ‘Everything was recorded and crated and then flown off the island by transport plane destined for Berlin. Most of the records were subsequently lost during the Allied bombing and advance into the city, but there is still a manifest of the shipment of three hundred and forty-two crates. Much of what was stolen has never been returned. Of course some of it was destroyed in the bombing, but no doubt much of it was later sold by those high up in German command, to finance their escape at the end of the war.’
‘And that’s what happened with the artefacts Dracoulis found?’
‘That is the assumption, yes. The German commander on the island who oversaw the operation was a man called Manfred Bergen.’
I mentioned that I’d seen a picture of Bergen in the book in my father’s study.
‘A very unpleasant man I should think,’ Dova observed. ‘Though actually he was known to be an amateur archaeologist.’
I hadn’t been aware of that, but it was interesting to note. It seemed to lend strength to the idea that there might be something on the Antounnetta of value. We passed through a hall where Dova pointed out Hellenistic ceramics and votive reliefs alongside classical statues and bronze tripods which dated from the ninth century BC. There were rows of cases of beautifully decorated arybolloi and drinking vessels of the kind I’d seen in my father’s collection.
In the central hall of the west wing, a large glass case occupied a space in the centre of the room.
‘These are the Dracoulis artefacts,’ Dova announced.
There were perhaps two hundred different pieces, many made of clay decorated with the black figured technique. As well as the sort of goblets, jugs and amphorae I’d become used to seeing, there were several small statues and some fragments of clay masks. On a mounting in front of the display, explanatory notes described who Dracoulis had been and the history of the exhibits.
‘The finds date from different periods,’ Dova explained. ‘Some date from the early Mycenaean, others from the Late Classical or Roman periods. From this we are able to determine that the site they came from was used as a place of worship over many thousands of years.’
There was a picture of a statue of Aphrodite which was housed in a museum in Athens, and a brief passage about her origins. She was the goddess of love, beauty and fertility. She was portrayed as a sexual creature, a goddess of earthly rather than heavenly love. Almost naked, there was something wanton and lascivious about her pose.
Dova indicated a small leather-bound book displayed open, showing slightly yellowed pages filled with neat black handwriting. Some of the pages were torn, and parts were missing. ‘This is Dracoulis’s diary. It was discovered with the collection. He used it to catalogue his finds and describe the remains of a structure which he concluded must be the original site of the temple.’ Dova smiled wistfully. ‘As you see it is incomplete, however much of it is still legible.’
As we returned through the museum I asked Dova if he had heard of the Panaghia.
‘Yes, of course. Your father mentioned it many times. It was one of the relics stolen from the monastery at Kathara during the war.’
‘Then you know that it was on a German ship called the Antounnetta which was attacked by the Resistance as it left Ithaca?’
‘Yes.’
‘Before he died, my father claimed he’d found the statue. He also hinted that he’d found something else. Did he happen to mention anything about this to you?’
Dova was mystified. ‘No, I am afraid not.’
We reached the entrance and I shook Dova’s hand and thanked him for his time. He told me not to hesitate to contact him if there was any way that he could be of further help. I thanked him again and went outside to find a taxi to take me to the Hotel Ionnis.
The Hotel Ionnis turned out not to be the kind of international standard hotel where a dealer of antiquities might be expected to stay. Instead, it was a small low-budget hotel one street back from the working end of the wharf where the fishing boats unloaded their catches every day. The painted exterior was cracked and peeling, the steps to the door worn by the endless comings and goings of backpackers and other visitors on limited means. Outside, the smell of fish and diesel fumes hung in the air, inside, stale cigarette smoke competed with unappealing cooking aromas emanating from the kitchen.
A youth eyed me incuriously as I approached a small window set into a reception office.
‘Do you speak English?’ I asked hopefully.
He nodded. ‘You want a room? I have very nice room on third floor. It has view of harbour. Very reasonable.’
‘No, thanks. I’m looking for somebody who was staying here. His name was Johann Kohl.’
The name didn’t register. Having established that I wasn’t a prospective customer, the youth made an exaggerated show of indifference. ‘There is nobody here called Kohl.’
I dug for my wallet and put fifty euros down on the counter. ‘He’s an old man. He was here some time in April.’ I showed the youth the picture in the paper, but he barely glanced at it, his attention wholly taken up with my money. Reaching underneath the counter he produced a register and, after turning a couple of pages, he spun the book around for me to look at.
‘Kohl. April the fifteenth. He was here four days.’
I let him have the money. Kohl had arrived a couple of days before the opening of the exhibit, and I assumed he had left to return to Ithaca with my father. The address given in the register was Hamburg, though there was no street name or number. I thanked the youth and turned to leave, but before I’d reached the door he called to me.
‘If you want you can take his things.’
‘What things?’ I went back again and the youth gestured to a cupboard.
‘Sometimes people leave things. They forget.’ He opened the door to reveal a space stuffed with cardboard boxes containing bits of clothing and old books. After a bit of searching he came out with a battered holdall which he hoisted onto the counter.
‘He left this?’ It appeared to be full. I reached for the zip, but the youth held onto it.
‘You are relative?’
‘No.’
‘We only give things to relative.’
I doubted that. I reached for my wallet and gave him another forty euros. ‘He was my brother,’ I said sardonically, at which the youth merely took the money and pushed the bag towards me. When I opened it I found it was full of clothes and a pair of shoes. There was also a toilet bag containing a toothbrush, shaving gear and a bottle of some kind of pills.
‘How long do you keep things?’ I asked.
‘One month. Maybe two. Then we give away. There is too much.’ He gestured towards the evidence of the stuffed cupboard.
‘But this was left in April,’ I said. ‘Nearly three months ago.’
The youth took a look at the bag and pointed to some figures written on the side with a marker pen. ‘June,’ he said.
Around the same time that Kohl’s body was discovered I realised, and also when my father had insisted on leaving the hospital. ‘Let me see the register.’ I grabbed it before the youth thought to demand more money from me, and flipped over the pages until I found what I was looking for. Kohl had come back to the hotel in May. He had registered the day after my father had his heart attack, but had never checked out. I knew why. Because a couple of weeks later he’d gone to Ithaca and taken a taxi from Piso Aetos to the monastery at Kathara where somebody had shoved a knife into him. But why had he come back to the hotel after my father’s heart attack? And why had he gone to Ithaca again the day he was killed?
I took Kohl’s bag with me when I left and found a bar near the wharf where I sat down and wen
t through it. At the bottom, underneath his clothes, all of which were worn and of poor quality, I found a plastic zip-up case of the kind that school children use for keeping notebooks and pencils. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of a group of men wearing the uniform of German soldiers from the Second World War. They were posed for the photographer, smiling at the camera. In the background I could make out some buildings that had a Mediterranean appearance and the shadows on the ground suggested the picture had been taken somewhere sunny. Several things struck me about the soldiers. One or two were obviously middle-aged, in their fifties or so, but most were by contrast extremely young. A circle had been drawn around the face of one on the front row who was little more than a boy. His uniform looked too big for him. At the end of the row stood another man perhaps in his twenties. He was handsome, with very fair hair and he wore the uniform of an officer. On the breast of his tunic he wore an iron cross like the one I’d found in my father’s study.
I turned the picture over. A date was written on the back. June 1943. The year before the Germans evacuated Ithaca. There was no indication where the picture had been taken, but I was sure that it was in Vathy. I looked again at the circled figure but, other than his youth, nothing else stood out about him.
When I replaced the picture in the case I found something else. It was a folded page from a German newspaper. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t understand the text. It was dated September the year before and the artefacts in the photograph matched the display I had just seen at the museum. To remove any doubt that this was an article concerning the discovery of the Dracoulis artefacts, there was a picture of a statue of Aphrodite.
I paid for my coffee and asked the waiter if there was an internet café somewhere nearby. He directed me to a kefenio further along the wharf which had two computers at a table in a back corner that could be hired by the minute. After I’d logged on, I typed the name ‘Antounnetta’ into the search query box, but none of the responses related to a German ship from the war. I tried several other queries using keywords such as ‘Ithaca’ and ‘the German occupation’ and, though I began turning up plenty of sites, none of them told me what I wanted to know. It wasn’t until I eventually tapped into a database on the German army during the Second World War almost an hour later, and then entered the name Hauptmann Stefan Hassel, that I struck gold. There I found the names of all the men who had been under Hassel’s last command. Beside each was a symbol denoting that they had been killed in action. There was no Johann Kohl, but among them I found the name Eric Schmidt.
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