“Kali´spéra,” I said, and Paul said after me, but from then on, as we had arranged, he became our spokesman.
Before us was a skeletonous little woman who had once had beauty and a tongue and now had only a fleeting smile over broken, parted teeth with a hollow behind them, and dark, wild eyes. She made a sound, a kind of welcome.
“We should like to speak to the Mistress Superior,” Paul said. “We have brought gifts from the village.”
She saw then that he was blind. She looked from him to me and pointed from her eyes to her mouth, shaking her head.
“She is showing us that as you are blind, she cannot speak.” I spoke in Greek.
She ran to the gate and looked out to where I had tethered the donkey in the shade. She went out and herself brought in the two kegs of wine. I offered to take one, but she pulled it from me. She set them down and returned for the other gift.
“She will not have recognized me,” Paul said, “and it is better that first we speak to the head of the house.”
Having made sure the gifts were inside the gate, she led us to a room near the chapel and left us. It was bare, save for two long benches along either wall and the icon to the Virgin, a very old-looking one indeed. The one window overlooked the river gorge, hundreds of feet below.
I heard first the shuffle of feet, then six or seven sandaled, black-garbed women passed the open door without looking in. I wondered if it were the entire community. I went to the door for a brief, surreptitious glance. They were, one and all, observing the gifts. I told Paul.
“How terrible if we had come empty-handed,” I said.
“We should have been as welcome.”
Paul had taken the letter from his pocket, the one given to the shepherd to tell of Maria’s death. When the woman I shall call the Mother Prioress entered, Paul spoke to her as Mother, and I followed his example. She was an elderly woman, but of a high and serene bearing, and her face was of great refinement. If she was ill at ease in our presence there was no sign of it.
“We are privileged to be visited,” she said, and thanked us for the gifts.
“They are from the people of the village,” I demurred.
“But you have brought them.”
“We have come after talking with Father Zachos,” Paul said, “the priest in Kalpaki.”
“He is a friend,” she said, but with rather more reserve. “Please be seated if you wish. Maria will bring you a small repast.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Paul said. “We wish your permission to speak with Maria.”
“You will know that she cannot speak, blind one.”
“She has not recognized me, but it was I who tried to help her, who stayed with her the night after the terrible thing was done to her.”
“I know nothing,” the nun said. “I wish to know nothing.”
Paul offered her the letter. “You will have written this, Mother, and for reasons of the woman’s safety as Father Zachos has told us. It is not to harm her we have come. I am blinded by the same hand.”
“The letter was written by one of the others who knows the shepherd’s language, but I know its message. You do not need my permission, but I will tell you there are moments when a madness overcomes her and she must be locked away from this side of the cloisters lest she jump from the windows. If it is not necessary, I would ask that you not make her relive whatever obscene thing befell her.”
“It is necessary,” Paul said brusquely.
I said, “But you will please stay with us, Mother?”
“If you wish. But let us go from here. Perhaps the garden. Our community will be in the refectory.”
We sat beneath an arbor where Maria brought a tray with bread and cheese and preserves. When the prioress tried to detain her, she went through some extraordinary grimaces which the nun interpreted: “It is the donkey—she wishes to take water to it.”
“It is very kind,” I said.
While she was gone, Paul and I ate the preserve. The bread was fresh and delicious, the cheese, to me, rancid. The nun explained the community routine. They wove and prayed and grew most of the food they needed. At one time they had painted icons after the ancient masters but, on discovery that their work was being sold as antiques, discontinued the practice. Now they worked entirely on native costumes for which there was a market.
Maria returned. The nun told her that the blind man wished to talk with her.
“Come and give me your hand,” Paul said. “I am a friend. I am Paul Stephanou.”
The woman approached him very slowly, step after lingering step, but she did not take her eyes from his face from the moment he said his name. Nor did she take the hand outstretched to her. Instead she touched his face, his eyelids, ever so gently with her fingers.
Paul lifted his face. “I too have known Demetrios,” he said.
Maria, with utter indifference to the presence of the nun and me, bent over him and put her lips to one eye, then the other. Paul caught her face and held it until his lips had touched her mouth.
I clamped my own mouth shut to keep from crying out. I did not look at the nun.
Maria dropped to her knees at Paul’s feet, and sat back on her haunches. He took her hand in his and said, “You will press my hand once for yes, twice for no, to the questions I am going to ask you. Do you understand?”
He then spoke to me: “Professor? You will come close to me also.”
I sat on the ground beside his chair. The nun remained in her chair.
Paul said, “This man was with me, Maria. He was Mr. Webb’s friend. Do you remember?”
I saw the single pressure of her hand on his.
“First of all, do you have the book Mr. Webb gave you that night?”
Yes. She turned and pointed to the nun.
“We have kept a book handwritten in English for her,” the nun said.
“It is well,” Paul said. Then to Maria: “Hold my hand. Did you speak in Italian with Mr. Webb?”
Yes.
“And then told the General what he said?”
Yes.
“I want to ask these questions right. Help me, Professor.”
“Did they talk about Demetrios?” I prompted.
Yes.
“And Mr. Webb’s wife, did they speak of her?”
Yes.
“After we see the journal, Paul, we may not need to ask Maria any more questions on the subject.”
“It is so,” he said. “Maria, did the General ask you to guide Mr. Webb down from the camp?”
Yes. Without his asking it, she drew a crossroads in the dust beside her, forgetting perhaps that he could not see it.
“To the crossroads,” I said. “She has drawn the sign.”
“Did you see Demetrios kill Mr. Webb?”
No.
It was the first “no,” and the only one where “yes” was imperative. Paul repeated the question. The answer was the same. Maria was pointing frantically at her ears.
“You heard the shot?” I said.
Yes.
“And ran away?”
Yes. She again made the grimaces and the terrible breathy noise of inarticulation.
I could not think of the word in Greek for “scream,” “shout.” I said it in English and Paul translated.
Yes.
“Did you go back then?”
Yes.
“And then you saw Demetrios?”
No. She pointed to the sun and shook her head. Darkness.
“There was darkness,” I said.
Again the grimace of screaming, the motion of finding Webb’s prone body. By a terrible series of trial and error pantomimes and questions we learned that she had herself been caught from behind as she bent over Webb, and then thrust upon the ground. Finally, while the thumbs were on her throat forcing open her mouth and the protrusion of her tongue, she had seen the face of her assailant, and had recognized him. Demetrios.
There was only one more question I wished to ask, at least until
we had seen the journal, but how to ask it? I said to Paul, “We must know to whom Webb instructed her to give the book, and why she did not do it.”
The answer was very simple: to me, Jabez Emory. If anything had happened to Webb, she was to find me when I reached Ioannina and give the book to me. She had not been allowed to return to her cottage for many months and it was there she had buried the notebook, I think as a symbol of the evil that had befallen her.
A few minutes later the nun, with Maria nodding consent, gave the notebook into my hands.
There were pages of notes on Webb’s earlier observations in a shorthand of his own. I give here a paraphrase of what I read to Paul since I cannot remember it verbatim. It commenced:
Dear Emory,
You sleep there like a child. I look at you and ask by what right such innocence? It is not enough to say you are an American. I hope you will never read this, but if you do I am counting on you to place its information—where? You must decide. Then you will not be a child any more.
I have been sent here to my death, I do believe. I carried the instructions on my own person, neatly sewn in the collar of my coat by a loving and treacherous wife. Knowing this I hope to escape. My reluctant host has provided a guide to whom I am confiding this notebook, and which I shall take back if I am safely delivered.
I met Margaret two years ago in Iran. Several foreign nationals were being held by the Iranian Communists and their Soviet advisers, charged with cooperation with the Germans before the Allies moved in. For a reason then obscure to me the Soviets named me as a satisfactory intermediary between them and the British-American authorities seeking the return of one of these prisoners, Margaret Clitheroe. My own government urged me to serve, an irony I hope will not be lost if this is to be my epitaph.
Among the other “prisoners” was a Greek army captain, Alexis Frontis, whom we have met today under the name Demetrios. These prisoners, I am now convinced, were one and all trained Soviet agents. Their Iranian captivity was their training period. I can think of no other reason for Demetrios to have been in Iran.
It was sheer chance that I met him. I had come to the internment camp (actually a converted resort-hotel) for a preliminary interview with Margaret herself. A guard was present. The Greek walked in on us. He apologized, but lingered at the door. The guard did not order him out. Margaret introduced him, a man liberated from Auschwitz, but not at liberty. The Russians had charges against him. Margaret told me afterwards that he had been permitted to teach her Greek. I remarked on the leniency of her jailors. She said that all the prisoners were people of some distinction. She was herself the daughter of an Anglo-Persian Oil official, and she believed herself to be more a hostage than a prisoner, held to the Russian purpose of achieving political concessions in exchange for her release. This did prove to be the case—on the face of things. I now remember wondering when I met him if there was a personal relationship between Margaret and the Greek, for him to have been curious about me. Still unanswered.
There were several lines crossed out here, Webb uncertain of the order in which to place the incidents. One of them I include now in brackets although he did not restore it:
[I should say that when I reached Athens I reported to the government having seen Alexis Frontis, and vouching to them that he was a Russian prisoner.]
Margaret was released after several weeks of negotiation. We had become friends. In the early days of her freedom we became lovers. Meanwhile I had been ordered to Athens by my newspaper. We were married at the British Embassy the day before I left, Margaret following me a week later. I remember her comment on how fortunate it was that she had learned a little Greek.
I will not condemn my wife. I have loved her and I thought that she loved me, a man twenty-seven years her senior, and one of obvious conceit to have assumed her love. If I return to Athens I shall—what shall I do? I was about to say I would take her back to America and protect her even from herself. But that will not be possible, her boldness in espionage having brought me to this turn. To protect her I shall stand myself accused of being a Soviet agent. If I knew why she serves them I would tell it here. I hope it is conviction. That would not be so bad. I had thought I was making a liberal of her, converting her from the Right! I should have known in our own relationship that a woman of her pride could be humble only by an act of will. And once she told me she could not bear the company of fools unless they crowned her Folly. There is not time, but I would feel better, knowing.
I must set down the beginning of the present situation. I have been aware for several weeks that I was under surveillance of both Greek and American Intelligence. Are you one of them, Emory? I no longer think so. But I did at the time we left Athens. I had thought so from the beginning of your knightly attentions to my wife. I was hoping that you were, for I could think of no better way to lay the ghost of suspicion than to take with me one of the suspicious. If you are an agent, then you and your superiors have been no less deceived than have I. To me it no longer matters. My colleagues have been questioned, my mail has been delayed, numerous things, but nothing in the open. I told Margaret I thought I was under security observation. She then confessed to having herself been interrogated about me by British Intelligence. I was furious. As always under attack I wanted to counterattack. I was fed up also with playing puppet to the Athens regime, manufacturing stories to the pattern of their propaganda. I said there ought to be some way of covering the rebel cause, and if I could find it I would blast my way out of Athens. Something like that. I spoke of leaving and re-entering Greece by way of Yugoslavia. Margaret begged me not to do anything precipitous. She said the government’s attitude toward the foreign press was likely to change. She had it from very close to the horse’s mouth. Like most people of her class, Margaret was not long in Athens before drifting into the social set. The family connections—hell, the money connections, were already made. I said it was a long way from the horse’s mouth to a horse’s ass like me. It was our first good quarrel, and, like most quarrels, I thought afterwards, it had been argued for the wrong reasons. It was also our last quarrel. Within a week Paul Stephanou approached me and said he understood I wished to interview the ELAS leader. I had made no secret of it. Other correspondents felt the same. I was honored to be chosen. A good reporter must have entry everywhere. But when I saw Demetrios waiting for us tonight, the whole sickening picture came clear, and I knew I had walked into a trap. I was not meant to leave alive. I have been such a successful cover, such a magnificent one. And if I die, her guilt will be buried with me in my grave, if you so choose. When I was trying to figure out why I was under surveillance Margaret even suggested that it might be due to my having been the intermediary in Iran. And I thought it might be so. My God, I am on the point of admiring her!
My first thought on recognizing Demetrios was that my only chance lay with Markos himself. I demanded through Stephanou, when Demetrios left the room, to speak to Markos alone with only the translator present. Markos did not want us there at all. He made that plain enough. I was not sure I was going to get to see him until the woman, Maria, came for me and asked if I spoke Italian. I knew then that Markos was not himself entirely sure of Demetrios.
And by then I also knew that I had been used as an actual carrier. I suspected it when Demetrios remained out of the room so long. I later discovered the neat slit in my coat collar.
One thing has saved me if I am saved—and for what am I saved? To accuse my wife? Or to be silent, myself accused? One thing. It was I who told Markos that I had carried, without my knowledge, some information to his camp. This was some two hours after we had arrived. Demetrios had made no mention of such information to him. I told Markos the circumstances under which I had previously met Demetrios—and my wife. Markos had not expected Demetrios when he arrived two days ago. He came on Soviet instructions. I think Markos is still waiting to learn why he is here. I have told him what I believe, that if I die, a presumed Soviet agent, Margaret is clear
, and that Demetrios had probably come on instructions passed through diplomatic pouch. Markos said he would confront Demetrios in my presence, and if what I said were true the woman would be waiting for me in the fourth cottage from ours at one-thirty in the morning. You will remain in camp until morning. No one is to know how I have left here. If I am alive I will be watching for you at the Ioannina road when Stephanou brings you down.
While we were eating, Markos asked Demetrios if it were true that he had found me a useful carrier of information. Demetrios denied it at first, I suppose protesting such discussion in my presence. Then he produced the three strips of binding cloth containing the neatly coded intelligence. The code was in French which the General did not like either. Demetrios went for his code book. Through the woman Markos said to me, “He will tell me also no more than he thinks I have to know.” I am sure he believes there is a conspiracy against him. He does not trust the Soviet promises, but he does not dare to offend them and Demetrios is their man.
Demetrios returned and worked out the code while Markos and I sat silent. I am not sure, but I believe the intelligence to be almost entirely political. It was not translated for my benefit. If the woman is waiting it will not be because Markos is sentimental about me. He will believe himself betrayed also. History must write it if it is so, but my last dispatch before leaving Athens gives my belief that the civil war is almost over. Markos knows that Stalin will not stand by the Greeks. No more than if he had the choice would Markos stand by Stalin.
It is ten past one.
Of all countries, this troubled land is the one I wanted foremost to write truly and deeply about. I suppose it was arrogant of me to think I alone could do it, and that is what brought me here. I would have told the story—not of Markos or those who will supplant him—but of young Paul Stephanou who will either be tried for treason or will live in exile from the land, the people he loves dearer than life. And writing this I would be called a Communist anyway, and I do not think you, friend Emory, would gainsay it. Which is as sad as anything I can think of now.
Enemy and Brother Page 24