In order to protest our innocence and repeat our core beliefs, the Phoenix Rises will this evening rally in Eleftherias Square, where leader Makis Kalogirou will speak.
Are You with Us?
Long Live Greece, purified of all contamination!
Long Live Freedom!
Rachel went to the bathroom and washed her face. Anger and loathing were coursing through her veins, but there was no evidence of them on her features. She had been well trained. Still, she needed an outlet and decided to call her father. They spoke in French, but their version of the language would only have been fully understood by the Jews of Paris. She told him about the little that she and Mavros had discovered.
‘This Ester Broudo, you still don’t know why she said those things about Aron?’
‘She could be deranged, though Rabbi Rousso thinks not.’ She described Baruh Natzari’s refusal to talk about her great-uncle.
‘Strange. Maybe there really is something for you to investigate.’
‘I think there is and so does Alex Mavros. He’s following the old man as we speak.’
‘How is the long-haired detective doing?’
‘He is … competent. And he hasn’t told me everything.’
Her father laughed. ‘You’ll get it out of him. More money will convince him, though only if that’s strictly necessary.’
‘I’m not sure that will work. There are other ways.’
Eliezer Samuel paused. ‘I leave that to your discretion.’
Rachel told him about the Phoenix Rises’ proclamation.
‘Disgusting animals. Stay away from them. There are always anti-Semites, no matter where you go. You’d have thought they’ve achieved their end in Thessaloniki, with only a few hundred of our community left.’
‘We aren’t their only target,’ she said, ‘even though they make threats to the local Jews. There are many more Muslim immigrants, legal and otherwise.’
‘Stay away, I tell you. Uncle Aron can have nothing to do with them.’
‘All right, Papa. We’ll speak again soon.’
‘I love you, my little girl.’
Rachel cut the connection. She was used to her father’s displays of affection, but she couldn’t reciprocate. If she loved anyone, it would be him. But she didn’t think she had that ability – it either wasn’t in her nature or had been expurgated by the things she had learned.
She called Mavros. His number was engaged.
‘What?’ said a surprised Shimon Raphael. ‘Hypers are pretty rare.’
‘They are.’ Mavros had stopped the taxi at the White Tower and was walking back to the hotel, phone to his ear.
‘It may explain why there’s nothing in the official files here. I asked a former comrade to look. But I’ve still got other sources on the job.’
‘What do you think about the killing of the Jordanian?’
The customs broker grunted. ‘I thought you’d ask me about that. What, you reckon Aron Samuel shot him?’
The idea hadn’t entered Mavros’s mind, but now it was there he tried to process it. ‘He’ll be eighty if he’s alive.’
‘But the swastikas are interesting.’
‘Swastikas on a Muslim. Is it true the dead man was a gangster?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. Some people are bound to say so.’
Mavros was still wrangling with the idea. ‘Why would Aron be involved in a murder like that?’
‘You’re the investigator,’ Shimon said, with a loud laugh. ‘I just toss in off-the-wall ideas.’
‘Thanks. Did you get anywhere with the Tsiako–Vital wedding?’
‘Kind of. The Vitals don’t seem to have had any connection with Samuel – they’re originally from Florina and only moved here ten years ago. The Tsiakos are more interesting.’
Mavros felt the faint tug on the end of the line that sometimes came out of nowhere to break a case. ‘In what way?’
Shimon exhaled loudly. ‘Well, it’s a version of the old story. The only person who escaped the Holocaust was his grandmother. She was sheltered by a Christian family and later married another survivor, a Zvi Tsiako. But get this. He was the same age as Aron Samuel and he attended the same school.’
‘That is interesting. What happened to him?’
‘He was in Auschwitz-Birkenau and then in various displaced-persons camps until he finally made his way back to Greece in 1947. He missed the Civil War and built up a decent business as a cloth wholesaler, before he died of a heart attack in the 90s. His son Yitzhak, Ilias’s father, runs the company now and the bridegroom is a junior manager.’
‘Do you know Yitzhak?’
‘Yes. He’s a good sort. Very keen on chess.’
‘Can you arrange a meeting for me? Don’t mention Aron Samuel. Say I’m a historian.’
‘All right, I’ll let you know. Listen, I have to go. The bastards from the Phoenix Rises are having a demonstration in the square near my office this evening and I’m shutting up early.’
‘That wouldn’t be Eleftherias Square, would it?’ Mavros was looking at his map and saw the place’s proximity to the port.
‘The place the Nazis humiliated the Jews in 1942 – yes, it would.’
‘Lovely. How do they get a permit from the council?’
‘A good question, the answer to which involves rectangular, coloured pieces of paper. The spirit of collaboration lives! See you.’
Mavros put the phone in his pocket and looked ahead. The square in question was to the right of the seafront, close to the cranes. He decided to take a look, but his phone rang before he got far.
‘I want a report,’ Rachel said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Close. Give me ten minutes.’
He turned towards the hotel. His client’s daughter was as demanding as ever. She wasn’t going to like the fact that he’d lost Baruh and his young companions one bit.
Mavros’s phone rang again as he was washing his hands and face in his room.
‘Alex, have you finished up there yet?’
‘Niki, my love. I’m sorry. The case is beginning to drag.’
‘What a surprise.’
‘How are you?’
‘How should I be?’
He groaned silently. This was the Niki who drove him round the bend. ‘I don’t know – tired after work?’
‘Well, obviously. Try harder.’
He bit the dum-dum bullet. ‘Em, worried about not getting pregnant?’
There was a peal of ironic laughter. ‘Very good. You should take up darts.’
And throw them at your— Mavros banished the thought. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Fortunately my friend Maria is staying with me tonight.’
‘Good.’
‘Isn’t it? Of course, you’re one who should be here, not her. You, my lover, the father of my children to be.’ She broke off and started to sob. Maria’s voice could be heard in the background.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, Niki, honestly.’ He knew how crap that sounded. ‘Hang on, please.’
There were further moans and snuffles, then Maria came on the line.
‘I’ll take care of her, Alex,’ she said sternly. ‘But you owe it to her to get back. She’s very shaky. Here, darling, say goodbye to him.’
‘Bye, Alex,’ Niki said sullenly.
‘Bye, my love. I’ll talk to—’ The connection was cut.
‘Bollocks,’ Mavros said, in English.
Now he felt even less inclined to go and explain himself to the human chilblain down the corridor.
EIGHTEEN
We didn’t only shepherd our people into the gas chamber. There were times when the crematoria couldn’t take all the corpses. Then the SS had us dig pits. That was what saved me. It was a wet day and shovelling the black mud out was backbreaking labour. Even though we had better rations, we were still in poor physical condition, not least because of the twelve-hour shifts. After two days we needed long ladders to climb out of the great trench. The surface down
there was treacherous. One of our number sank to his waist and we only got him out by tying a rope round him and hauling from the top. He screamed all the way. When we untied him, we saw why. One of his shoulders had been dislocated. Fortunately an SK member who had trained a football team in the life before the Lager managed to reset it. Otherwise the mud-covered man would have been the first occupant of the hole.
Knaus supervised our work, screaming at us when we paused to catch our breath. Valais followed his lead, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d been coughing for weeks and had begun to stoop. At last the SS man was satisfied. He sent one of the guards back to the compound. Soon more troops arrived, several with dogs, and formed a double column about two metres apart. Then, with screams and wailing, our people started to appear. They were naked, but no attempt was being made to hide their impending fate. Whips cracked and boots flew as they stumbled down the muddy path.
We were standing at the narrow edge of the pit, beside heaps of logs and barrels of fuel. I looked around, wondering if I could hide somewhere till night, then instantly dismissed the idea. I had to stay alive and that meant taking part in the horror.
Men and women of all ages, and children ranging from babies to teenagers, were brought to the long lip of earth. Their heads were shaved, so they’d been in the Lager for some time. A line of SS men stood in pairs. One pushed the prisoner to his or her knees, and the other fired a single shot from a small-calibre pistol into the back of their necks. Our people were then shoved into the trench and their places taken by the next victim. Knaus laughed as he fired, yelling to his men to speed the walking dead. Valais and I looked at each other. Our capo looked ready to drop. I suddenly thought of my family – my parents, Miriam and little Golda. Were they here? I forced myself to look. I saw none of them.
Many of those who had been shot were still alive when they hit the mud, their arms and legs twitching. One even raised her head – a young woman, who had tried to shield her breasts as she was pushed down the line.
‘My baby!’ she screamed in our tongue. ‘My baby!’
SS men threw the small children straight into the pit – they weren’t worth a bullet. They scrabbled around in the dirt, wailing piteously. Others in the SK closed their eyes, but I let the vision burn into my memory. It was the only way I could keep faith with my community – by witnessing its destruction. An idea gripped me. If I survived, I would avenge them.
Eventually a halt was called. Guards came to where we were standing and started pumping diesel over the victims. Then Knaus arrived, carrying several lengths of rough cotton. He lit them and handed them to us, speaking to Valais.
‘Throw them in all over the trench,’ the capo ordered.
We did as we were told without hesitation. The material burned quickly. There was a succession of thwumps as the fuel caught fire. The bottom of the trench turned into an inferno, the undead shrieking before they inhaled the burning air.
‘Now the wood,’ Valais said, trying to lift a log.
I helped him. The heavy pieces of wood slammed down on the bodies, and then the killing started again. It went on all day. Valais tried to follow the orders he was given, but his eyes were dim. It didn’t surprise me when he threw himself into the flames after the third layer of bodies was ignited. He didn’t writhe or struggle: a last demonstration of will before the death he craved or exhaustion?
Although I respected him, I was not moved. In fact, his sacrifice benefitted me immediately.
Knaus came over as I rolled one of the last logs into the pit.
‘Valais was weak,’ he said, his mouth close to my ear.
I had picked up enough Lager German to understand him.
‘You’re capo of these shithounds now.’ He smacked me on the back and pointed to my eyes. ‘I see what you are. You are like me.’
I gave him the smile he required. It wasn’t as if I was lying. He was right. Fortunately there were no more prisoners in the line. A great cloud of greasy and foul-smelling smoke was blown over the fence.
I led my unit back to the compound. We were expecting to be sent to our hut, but the SS hadn’t finished for the day.
‘You see them?’ Knaus asked.
I looked at the filthy men outside the changing room.
‘You know them!’ the SS man said triumphantly.
And I did. They were Sonderkommando men, those who’d been in service when we were drafted in. Heads lowered, they filed down the steps unsteadily.
‘You don’t need to help them,’ Knaus said. ‘They know what awaits them.’
Guards followed them in. I heard a solitary shout, then a burst of machine-pistol fire. One – only one – of our people had resisted. Soon they were all in the gas chamber and the door closed. We were sent round the back. I remembered the tough guy from our first night and wondered if I would find myself taking his body to the furnace.
After fifteen minutes the fans started to run. Soon afterwards the door on the crematoria side was opened. My men and I put on gas masks and went inside. The place of death was sparsely filled. SK men were executed separately from ordinary prisoners in case they incited resistance. I picked my way over the bodies. One man rolled over and gasped, his tongue extended like a gargoyle’s. I gripped his head by the ears and smashed it against the concrete floor. I’d seen enough people go into the flames alive that day.
We buckled leather straps around each man’s neck and dragged them to the lift. I hardly recognised any of them, so changed were they by the gas – no longer human beings, just pieces of filth-covered flesh to be disposed of. That was how the Nazis referred to prisoners. We were ‘pieces’, tattooed with numbers, our names erased before we were.
‘Pinhas,’ I mumbled, when I saw a fellow Thessaloniki Jew. ‘I will remember you.’
And, as you hear, I have. A few hours later, they were particles of smoke and ash drifting over and into the chill waters of the Vistula. I was still a prisoner, but the beasts had made a mistake. They had given me more power. In the eyes of many people I would abuse it, furthering the ends of the SS; I would abase myself and collaborate – but I would stay alive. Now I had a motive even stronger than personal survival. I would make the executioners of my people pay.
NINETEEN
In her room Rachel interrogated Mavros in detail, breaking off to examine the photo of Baruh Natzari and the young man.
‘Did they see you from the restaurant?’ she asked, looking into his eyes.
‘It’s always possible when you have to hang around on your own. But I don’t think so.’
‘What about on the road from the seaside place to the dual carriageway, when there were three of them?’
‘Maybe. I had the driver keep his distance, but there wasn’t much traffic. Then again I was in a taxi, which is more anonymous.’
‘And on the ring road?’
‘There was much more traffic – cars, trucks and taxis.’ Mavros didn’t enjoy being put on the spot. ‘It’s perfectly possible that the driver decided to put his foot down for another reason. Maybe they had an appointment.’
Rachel’s stare intensified. ‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Er, no. I think they spotted us. But that doesn’t mean Baruh recognised me. I sat low down in the back.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’ She looked at her open laptop. ‘What is this “hyper” classification you mentioned?’
Mavros explained, breaking off to take bites from a room-service sandwich.
‘So my great-uncle was either a Communist who had to be protected or who was an enemy of the party?’
‘Mm. He could have been a member who turned on the comrades. Traitors were always treated like non-people.’
Rachel sat back in the sofa. ‘So this is a dead end.’
‘For the time being.’ Mavros still hadn’t told her about Shimon Raphael and the Tsiako connection. There was something about her he didn’t fully trust, employer or not. ‘Maybe Allegra will be able to make something of it
.’
‘Have you told her?’
‘Er, not yet.’
She gave him an irritated look. ‘Do it now.’
He called the researcher. She was interested, but doubted she’d be able to use it. The Communists were a closed book to her. She promised to give them an update on her work tomorrow.
‘How do you suggest we proceed?’ Rachel asked. Not for the first time, he wondered if she’d learned her English from 1950s text books.
He cast around for a way to satisfy her. Again, she had a suggestion of her own.
‘The Phoenix Rises,’ she said. ‘I heard they’re having a rally tonight.’
‘Really?’ Mavros wondered how she’d found that out.
As if she’d read his mind, she added, ‘The concierge told me to stay away from Eleftherias Square this evening. Isn’t that where Jewish males were forced to assemble during the war?’
‘Good of the neo-Nazis to rub that in.’
Rachel nodded, tight-lipped. ‘I want to go.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard me.’ She stood up. ‘I want to see the people who spray swastikas on the gate of our old people’s home, as well as the other hateful muck around the city. And who threaten Allegra Harari.’
Mavros got to his feet. ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’
She gave a sudden laugh. ‘Calm down, I don’t have a Star of David flag with me. You’re not scared, are you?’
‘Of a bunch of iron-pumping morons in steel-capped boots? Of course I’m scared, though as much of your father’s reaction as of them. Formally he’s my client, which makes me responsible for you.’
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