by Alan Furst
Pavlic’s expression was speculative: could this work? Then, slowly, he nodded, more to himself than to Zannis. “Not bad,” he said. “Pretty good.”
“But, I have to say this, dangerous.”
“Of course it is. But so is crossing the street.”
“Do you know your teletype number?”
Pavlic stared, then said, “No idea. So much for conspiracy.” Then he added, “Actually, a typist works the thing.”
“I know mine,” Zannis said. “Could I borrow that for a moment?”
Pavlic handed over the Modern Nudist. Zannis took a pencil from the pocket of his tunic and flipped to the last page, where a group of naked men and women, arms around one another’s shoulders, were smiling into the camera below the legend SUNSHINE CHUMS, DÜSSELDORF. Zannis wrote 811305 SAGR. “The letters are for Salonika, Greece. You use the rotary dial on the machine. After it connects, the machine will type the initials for ‘who are you’ and you type the ‘answer-back,’ your number.” He returned the magazine to Pavlic. “Perhaps you shouldn’t share this.”
“Does the message move on a telephone line?”
“Telegraph. Through the post office in Athens.”
“I think I’d better have the typist teach me how to do it.”
“Someone you trust?”
Pavlic thought it over and said, “No.”
Pushing a cart with a squeaky wheel, a nurse was moving down the aisle between the beds. “Here’s lunch,” Pavlic said.
Zannis rose to leave. “We ought to talk about this some more, while we have the chance.”
“Come back tonight,” Pavlic said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
7 December, Salonika. Zannis wasn’t sorry to be home, but he wasn’t all that happy about it either. This he kept hidden; why ruin the family pleasure? His mother was very tender with him, his grandmother cooked everything she thought he liked, and, wherever he went that first week, room to room or outdoors, Melissa stayed by his side—she wasn’t going to let him escape again. As for his brother, Ari, he had exciting news, which he saved during the first joyous minutes of homecoming, only to be upstaged by his mother. “And Ari has a job!” she said. With so many men away at the fighting, there was work for anybody who wanted to work, and Ari had been hired as a conductor on the tram line.
And, he insisted, this was something his big brother had to see for himself. So Zannis had ridden the Number Four trolley out to Ano Toumba and let his pride show—sidelong glances from Ari made certain Zannis’s smile was still in place—as Ari collected tickets and punched them with a silver-colored device. He was extremely conscientious and took his time, making sure to get it right. Inevitably, some of the passengers were rushed and irritable, but they sensed that Ari was one of those delicate souls who require a bit of compassion—was this a national trait? Zannis suspected it might be—and hardly anybody barked at him.
So Zannis returned to daily life, but a certain restless discomfort would not leave him. Able to hear out of only one ear, he was occasionally startled by sudden sounds, and he found that to be humiliating. A feeling in no way ameliorated by the fact that, just before he returned to Salonika, the Greek army had managed to find him a little medal, which he refused to wear, being disinclined to answer questions about how he came to have it. And, worst of all, he felt the absence of a love affair, felt it in the lack of commonplace affection, felt it while eating alone in restaurants, but felt it most keenly in bed, or out of bed but thinking about bed, or, in truth, all the time. In the chaos that followed the bombing of the Trikkala school, whatever goddess had charge of his mortality had brushed her lips across his cheek and this had, he guessed, affected that part of him where desire lived. Or maybe it was just the war.
On the evening of the seventh, Vangelis threw him a welcome-home party. Almost all were people Zannis knew, if, in some cases, only distantly. Gabi Saltiel, grayer and wearier than ever, was still driving an ambulance at night but traded shifts with another driver and brought his wife to the party. Sibylla, her helmet of hair highly lacquered for the occasion, was accompanied by her husband, who worked as a bookkeeper at one of the hotels. There were a couple of detectives, a shipping broker, a criminal lawyer, a prosecutor, two ballet teachers he’d met through Roxanne, an economics professor from the university, even a former girlfriend, Tasia Loukas, who worked at the Salonika city hall.
Tasia—for Anastasia—showed up late and held both his hands while he got a good strong whiff of some very sultry perfume. She was small and lively, dressed exclusively in black, had thick black hair, strong black eyebrows, and dark eyes—fierce dark eyes—that challenged the world from behind eyeglasses with gray-tinted lenses. Did Vangelis have something in mind for him when he invited Tasia? Zannis wondered. He’d had two brief, fiery love affairs with her, the first six years earlier, the second a few months before he’d met Roxanne. Very free, Tasia, and determined to remain so. “I’ll never marry,” she’d once told him. “For the truth is, I like to go with a woman from time to time—I get something from a woman I can never get with a man.” She’d meant that to be provocative, he thought, but he wasn’t especially provoked and had let her know that he didn’t particularly care. And he truly didn’t. “It’s exciting,” she’d said. “Especially when it must be kept a secret.” A flicker of remembrance had lit her face as she spoke, accompanied by a most deliciously wicked smile, as though she were smiling, once again, at the first moment of the remembered conquest.
Vangelis gave famously good parties—excellent red wine, bottles and bottles of it—and had stacks of Duke Ellington records. As the party swirled around them, Zannis and Tasia had two conversations. The spoken one was nothing special—how was he, fine, how was she—the unspoken one much more interesting. “I better go say hello to Vangelis,” she said, and reluctantly, he could tell, let go of his hands.
“Don’t leave without telling me, Tasia.”
“I won’t.”
She was replaced by the economics professor and his lady friend, who Zannis recollected was a niece or cousin to the poet Elias. They’d been hovering, waiting their turn to greet the returning hero. Asked about his war, Zannis offered a brief and highly edited version of the weeks in Trikkala, which ended, “Anyhow, at least we’re winning.”
The professor looked up from his wineglass. “Do you really believe that?”
“I saw it,” Zannis said. “And the newspapers aren’t telling lies.”
From the professor, a low grumbling sound that meant yes, but. “On the battlefield, it’s true, we are winning. And if we don’t chase them back into Italy, we’ll have a stalemate, which is just as good. But winning, maybe not.”
“Such a cynic,” his lady friend said gently. She had a long intelligent face. Turning to the table at her side, she speared a dolma, an oily, stuffed grape leaf, put it on a plate and worked at cutting it with the side of her fork.
“How do you mean?” Zannis said.
“The longer this goes on,” the professor said, “the more Hitler has to stop it. The Axis can’t be seen to be weak.”
“I’ve heard that,” Zannis said. “It’s one theory. There are others.”
The professor sipped his wine; his friend chewed away at her dolma.
Zannis felt dismissed from the conversation. “Maybe you’re right. Well then, what can we do about it?” he said. “Retreat?”
“Can’t do that either.”
“So, damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
“Yes,” the professor said.
“Don’t listen to him,” the professor’s friend said. “He always finds the gloomy side.”
The warrior in Zannis wanted to argue—what about the British army? Because if Germany attacked them, their British ally would arrive in full force from across the Mediterranean. To date, Britain and Germany were bombing each other’s cities, but their armies, after the debacle that ended in Dunkirk, had not engaged. Hitler, the theory went, had been taught a lesson the prev
ious autumn, when his plans to invade Britain had been thwarted by the RAF.
But the professor was bored with politics and addressed the buffet—“The eggplant spread is very tasty,” he said, by way of a parting shot. Then gave way to one of Zannis’s former colleagues from his days as a detective—insider jokes and nostalgic anecdotes—who in turn was replaced by a woman who taught at the Mount Olympus School of Ballet. Had Zannis heard anything from Roxanne? No, had she? Not a word, very troubling, she hoped Roxanne wasn’t in difficulties.
Minutes later, Zannis knew she wasn’t. Francis Escovil, the English travel writer and, Zannis suspected, British spy, appeared magically at his side. “Oh, she’s perfectly all right,” Escovil said. “I had a postal card, two weeks ago. Back in Blighty, she is. Dodging bombs but happy to be home.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yes, no doubt busy as a bee. Likely that’s why you haven’t heard from her.”
“Of course,” Zannis said. He started to say give her my best but thought better of it. That could, in a certain context, be taken the wrong way. Instead, he asked, “How do you come to know Vangelis?”
“Never met him. I’m here with Sophia, who teaches at the school.”
“Oh.” That raised more questions than it answered, but Zannis knew he’d never hear anything useful from the infinitely deflective Englishman. In fact, Zannis didn’t like Escovil, and Escovil knew it.
“Say, could we have lunch sometime?” Escovil said, trying to be casual, not succeeding.
What do you want? “We might, I’m pretty busy myself. Try me at the office—you have the number?”
“I think I might …”
I’ll bet you do.
“… somewhere. Roxanne put it on a scrap of paper.”
Escovil stood there, smiling at him, not going away.
“Are you writing articles?” Zannis asked, seeking safe ground.
“Trying to. I’ve been to all sorts of monasteries, got monks coming out of my ears. Went to one where they haul you up the side of a cliff; that’s the only way to get there. Just a basket and a frayed old rope. I asked the priest, ‘When do you replace the rope?’ Know what he said?”
“What?”
“When it breaks!” Escovil laughed, a loud haw-haw with teeth showing.
“Well, that’s a good story,” Zannis said, “as long as you’re not the one in the basket.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Tasia was headed toward him. “We’ll talk later,” he said to Escovil, and turned to meet her.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“Could you stay a while?”
“I guess I could. Why?”
“I’m the guest of honor, I can’t leave yet.”
“True,” she said. She met his eyes, no smile to be seen but it was playing with the corners of her mouth. “Then I’ll stay. But not too long, Costa. I don’t really know these people.”
He touched her arm, lightly, with two fingers. “Just a little while,” he said.
She had a large apartment, near the city hall and obviously expensive. One always wondered about Tasia and money but she never said anything about it. Maybe her family, he thought. Once inside, she fed her cats, poured two small glasses of ouzo, and sat Zannis on a white couch. Settling herself at the other end, she curled into the corner, kicked off her shoes, rested her legs on the cushions, said, “Salut,” and raised her glass.
After they drank she said, “Mmm. I wanted that all night—I hate drinking wine. Take your shoes off, put your feet up. That’s better, right? Parties hurt your feet? They do mine—high heels, you know? I’m such a peasant. Oh yes, rub harder, good … good … don’t stop, yes, there … ahh, that’s perfect, now the other one, wouldn’t want it to feel neglected … yes, just like that, a little higher, maybe … no, I meant higher, keep going, keep going … … no, don’t take them all the way off, just down, just below my ass … there, perfect, you’ll like that later. Remember?”
He was tired the following day, and nothing seemed all that important. It had been a long while between lovers for Tasia, as it had for Zannis, they were both intent on making up for lost time, and did. But then, a little after eleven, on what seemed like just another morning at work, he got something else he’d wanted. Wanted much more than he’d realized.
A letter. Carried by the postman, who appeared at the door of the office. Not his usual practice, the mail was typically delivered to a letter box in the building’s vestibule, but not that day, that day the postman hauled his leather bag up five flights of stairs, came to Zannis’s desk, took a moment to catch his breath, held up an envelope, and said, “Is this for you?”
Obviously a business letter, the return address printed in the upper left corner:
Hofbau und Sohn Maschinenfabrik GmbH
28, Helgenstrasse
Brandenburg
DEUTSCHLAND
With a typewritten address:
Herr C. N. Zannis
Behilfliches Generaldirektor
Das Royale Kleidersteller
122, Via Egnatia
Salonika
HELLAS
“Yes,” Zannis said. “That’s for me.” The letter was from, apparently, a manufacturer of industrial knitting machines in Brandenburg—not far from Berlin—to the assistant general manager of the Royale Garment Company in Salonika. Well done, he thought.
The postman leaned toward Zannis and spoke in a confidential voice. “I don’t care if you want to do this kind of thing. These days … well, you know what I mean. But I almost took this back to the post office, so in future leave me a note in the letter box, all right?”
“I will,” Zannis said. “But if you’d keep an eye out for, for this sort of arrangement, I’d appreciate it.”
The postman winked. “Count on me,” he said.
As the postman left, Zannis slit the envelope with a letter opener, carefully, and slid out a single sheet of folded commercial stationery; the address printed at the top of the page, the text typewritten below.
30 November 1940
Dear Sir:
I refer to your letter of 17 November.
We are in receipt of your postal money order for RM 232.
I am pleased to inform you that 4 replacement motors, 11 replacement spindles, and 14 replacement bobbins for our model 25-C knitting machine have been shipped to you by rail as of this date.
Thank you for your order. Hofbau und Sohn trusts you will continue to be satisfied with its products.
Yours truly,
S. Weickel
“Sibylla?” Zannis said. He was about to ask her about an iron. Then he stopped cold. She said, “Yes?” but he told her it was nothing, he’d take care of it himself.
Because he saw the future.
Because there was some possibility that the darkest theories of the war’s evolution were correct: Germany would rescue the dignity of her Italian partner and invade Greece. Yes, the British would send an expeditionary force, would honor her treaty with an ally. But Zannis well knew what had happened in Belgium and France—the chaotic retreat from Dunkirk. So it hadn’t worked then, and it might not work this time. The Greek army would fight hard, but it would be overwhelmed; they had no answer to German armour and aircraft. Salonika would be occupied, and its people would resist. He would resist. And that meant, what? It meant clandestine leaflets and radio, it meant sabotage, it meant killing Germans. Which would bring reprisal, and investigation, and interrogation. Saltiel and Sibylla might be questioned, so he could not, would not, compromise them, endanger them, with information they should not have. If they knew, they were guilty.
So Zannis left the office at noon, walked down to the market, found a stall with used irons in every state of age and decay, and bought the best electric model they had. “It works good,” the stall owner said.
“How do you know?”
“I can tell,” the man said. “I understand them. This one was left in the Hotel Lux Palace, and the settings
are in English.”
Zannis walked back to his apartment, set the iron on his kitchen table, returned to the office, couldn’t bear to wait all afternoon, and went home early.
First, he practiced, scorched a few pieces of paper, finally set the dial on WARM. Then he laid the letter flat on a sheet of newspaper on the wooden table in the kitchen and pressed the iron down on the letter’s salutation. Nothing. He moved to the text in the middle—“I am pleased to inform you that 4 replacement motors”—but, again, nothing. No! A faint mark had appeared above the p of “pleased.” More heat. He turned the dial to LOW, waited as the iron warmed, pressed for a count of five, and produced parts of three letters. He tried once more, counting slowly to ten, and there it was: “… ress KALCHER UND KRO …”
Ten minutes later he had the whole message, in tiny sepia-colored block letters between the lines of the commercial text:
Reply to address KALCHER UND KRONN, attorneys, 17, Arbenstrasse, Berlin. Write as H. H. STRAUB. 26 December man and wife traveling under name HARTMANN arrive Budapest from Vienna via 3-day excursion steamer LEVERKUSEN. He 55 years old, wears green tie, she 52 years old, wears green slouch hat. Can you assist Budapest to Belgrade? Believe last shipment lost there to Gestapo agents. Can you find boat out your port? Please help.
Last shipment meant the Rosenblum sisters, he thought, unless there had been others he didn’t know about. Also lost. Budapest? How the hell could he help in Budapest? He didn’t know a soul in Hungary; why would he? Why would Emilia Krebs think he did? What was wrong with this woman? No, calm down, he told himself. It isn’t arrogance. It is desperation. And, on second thought, there might be one possibility. Anyhow, he would try.
He never really slept, that night. Staring at the ceiling gave way to fitful dozing and awful dreams which woke him, to once again stare at the ceiling, his mind racing. Finally he gave up and was at the office by seven-thirty. December weather had reached them: the clammy chill of the Mediterranean winter, the same grisaille, gray days, gray city, that he’d come to know in Paris. He turned on the lights in the office and set out his box of five-by-eight cards. Yes, his memory had not betrayed him: Sami Pal. His real—as far as anybody knew—Hungarian name, Pal not an uncommon surname in Hungary. Or, perhaps, a permanent alias.