by Kahn, Denise
♫
CHAPTER 18
Count Nicolaos Malandros di Fontina sat at the bar of the Waldorf Astoria in New York. He was nursing a whisky while waiting for his friend, John Huntington. Young Nico had become quite a man. He had a firm jaw and an easy smile. He could easily pass as Scandinavian, but his complexion had a distinctive Mediterranean olive tone to it, rendering the ensemble very attractive and mysterious. His hands were perfectly manicured, and his suit was made by the Greek King’s tailor in Athens. The women looked at him with unabashed pleasure and giggled amongst themselves. Nico glanced over and smiled charmingly, nodding his head in greeting. He did love the ladies, but right at the moment he was thinking about his publishing house in Athens. The business was thriving with a great team working for him. He was the only publisher in the country that imported or printed foreign books and newspapers from all over the world. John was late. John was never late, Nico thought, even if he did work for the State Department. Nico had a bad feeling; something was definitely wrong. After an hour Huntington showed up.
“Sorry I’m late,” Huntington said. Nico looked at his friend. He had never seen him in such a state. John was a tall man, always nicely groomed, well dressed, calm and intelligent. Now he looked disheveled and flustered. Something terrible must have happened. They stared at each other, apprehensive, neither knowing how to open the conversation.
“What’s wrong, my friend?” Nico finally ventured.
“It’s terrible!” The American said, shaking his head. He sat down across from the Greek man.
“Your family? Are they alright?”
“Yes, they’re fine,” he said, “it’s Germany, they’ve declared war!”
Nico shook his head. “Bad times are in store for us, all of us, Europeans as well as Americans.
“Yes, Nico, you are right. As you know, we are allies with the Europeans, except for the Germans of course. They need all the help they can get. Militarily we are not entering the war because we have not been officially asked, but unofficially we are helping. Nico, I am telling you this because I know where you stand politically… and because we need you.”
“Who needs me?” Nico asked, still not understanding where John was taking this.
“We need your knowledge and your languages. You speak four languages like a native and you could…” John hesitated.
“Are you asking me to be a spy?”
“Something like that.”
“John, be serious, I know nothing about being a spy—I’m a publisher, a bookseller for God’s sake.”
“Yes, with many contacts all over Europe. We will train you, show you everything you need to know. Besides, Greece will be entering the war any time now and you will have to serve anyway. Might as well start from here—we’re all in this together.”
“Now I know why you were late. You were selling me.”
“You’re not a book, Nico. On the contrary, you’re one hell of a smart man and if you agree, you’re already approved.”
“Thanks for the compliment and the vote of confidence, but I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”
“Who is, my friend, who is?”
♫
CHAPTER 19
Nico spent several months training with his American buddies in special warfare operations, reconnaissance and intelligence. Because of this training, his education, business acumen, diplomatic manner, leadership qualities and fluency in languages, he was sent to France as a Lieutenant.
Nico’s unit was ordered to go reconnoiter the hill beyond the tiny river close to the enemy trenches. That was their specialty. The men would go in silently without receiving any artillery advance and bring back any information they could gather about the enemy.
Nico and his men crawled out of their trench and headed for the German lines. It was impossibly dark. There was no moon, no light, and the battlefield between the Allied and enemy trenches was barren. More than that, Nico thought, Mother Nature is dead, killed by innumerable explosions and shellings, deprived of its once natural beauty. Would anything ever grow here again? He wondered. A cold sweat enveloped him as they crossed No Man’s Land, the area between the German trenches and their own Allied ones. They continued to crawl and entered into enemy territory. They discovered strategically positioned machine guns waiting for the Allied assault. Nico went a little closer. He was so close that he could smell the Germans’ cooking lard. He made a quick, yet detailed mental picture, and ordered his men to go back. They crawled back as they came, silently and carefully. The Germans never knew they had been there.
Nico and his men slithered back into the crowded trenches with the rest of the troops. The soldiers in the wet, muddy, dark ditches were exhausted, their nerves rattled and the constant thud, thud, thud of explosions and shellfire all around left them sleepless and jumpy. Many had illnesses, ranging from dysentery, colds, frostbite and trench foot (from constantly being in water), and they also had to deal with hunger, rats, lice and bitter cold. It was 03:00 hours and everyone was awake. One of the soldiers lit a cigarette, passed the matches to a second man. The third was just lighting up when a bullet sizzled through his helmet. The soldier stood there momentarily frozen and then slumped to the ground, the blood pouring out of his forehead.
“How many times have you been told never to light up three times in a row!” Nico screamed. “The first one alerts the enemy, the second one takes aim, and the third one gets the kill, goddamn it!” War was war, he thought, but this was plain stupidity. “Do you think they sleep any better than we do? No! They go through the same shit we do and they thrive on target practice—us! It gives them something to do, you see.” Nico was seething. He hated to see men killed, especially so uselessly. From then on a match was never passed around more than twice.
Nico walked into the officers’ quarters, a dugout a hundred yards behind the forward trench.
“Malandros,” a Major said, “we need you and your men to go out again tonight. We need the latest information and you guys are the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Major, but its Christmas Eve. Couldn’t we give it a rest for tonight? My men are pretty tired and I think it would boost their morale a bit if we could take a twenty-four hour break,” Nico pleaded.
“Unfortunately we don’t have that luxury in war. I’m sorry, I need you to do it.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?”
The Major looked at him. He knew Nico’s powers of persuasion. “Go ahead.”
“Let me do it alone. I can go in and get the information you need on my own. It’s pretty quiet tonight, more than it’s ever been. I think the Gerrys are taking a break too.”
“That’s a no. This is too important and besides, I can’t afford to lose you.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I have a great bunch of guys and I need them to be in the best shape they can be, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. By not putting them out there on Christmas Eve I know it will help.”
The major looked at his best reconnaissance man and said: “Alright, you go out alone but take some of the Algerian unit with you. They’re Muslims, Christmas doesn’t mean a whole lot to them.”
“Sir, I can do it alone.”
“Lieutenant…”
“Yes, sir.”
The Algerians of the Armée d’Afrique followed Nico into No Man’s Land. They were about half way to the enemy trench when one of them saw a German and aimed his rifle at him.
“No!” Nico whispered, “no shooting!” The Algerians were good soldiers, but they weren’t reconnaissance specialists. Nico missed his own team and fervently wished he could have come alone.
“Look! That man, what is he doing?” Another of the Algerian soldiers said.
Nico looked to where he was pointing. A heavy German soldier was decorating a small fir tree with marzipan balls. Nico smiled. It was Christmas for the Germans too.
“Listen to me, you stay here. Don’t move and don’t shoot. It is b
ad luck to shoot anybody tonight! Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. But why?” The Algerian innocently asked.
“Because this is the anniversary of the day that baby Jesus, Issa, was born.”
“Ah, yes, Issa. I understand. No shooting. No matter what.”
“Exactly. Good man.”
Nico left the men and crawled toward the trench. He was the closest he had ever been, deep in the heart of enemy territory. He was so close that he could see the fat man standing next to the little decorated Christmas tree. He was making marzipan balls to add to other trees and for the German soldiers. Nico stared in awe and his mouth watered. Damn this war, he cursed. Why couldn’t we have peace and be celebrating with marzipan and champagne tonight? He sighed at his own dream. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another of the Algerian men standing and aiming his rifle toward the pastry chef. Nico swore under his breath. I told them to lay low! But it was too late now. There was nothing he can do. The Germans would mow the Algerians down with their machine guns. At the same time he felt sorry for the pastry chef, as he surely wouldn’t survive either. The outcome would be ugly and they would surely discover him too. But Nico never expected what came next.
“Nein! Nein! Tonight we celebrate Weihnachten. You cannot stop me, do you hear?” The pastry chef screamed coming out of the trench in front of the dark skinned man. He was holding the little fir in one hand and the star for the top of the tree in his other hand high above his head. He seemed oblivious to the danger, oblivious that these men could end his life in an instant, but perhaps he was betting on celestial protection. “Now go back to your side and tell them: Tonight we no shoot, you no shoot! Verstanden? Understood?” The Algerians stared open-mouthed as if they had seen the craziest man in the world. They thought either this fat German was insane, or Nico was right about the superstition. They ran all the way back to their trench and jumped in, completely forgetting their leader out in No Man’s Land. Nico was just a few feet away from the German. He was not sure what to do. He would have loved to laugh at the last scene—it was the most bizarre reaction he had ever seen. He didn’t want to kill this jovial man, but on the other hand he might be the one killed. Nico hoped the man was too focused on his marzipan and his tree to notice him. It was not to be. The heavy Berliner spotted him and stopped. He looked at him and said: “We no shoot, you no shoot. Frohe Weihnachten, Monsieur!” He turned and walked away. Nico stared, his eyes wider than they had ever been in his life and said: “Joyeux Noël, Mein Herr!” The pastry chef waved the star he was still holding high in the air. Nico stood up cautiously and looked at the enemy trench. He saw the faces of young German soldiers staring at him wide-eyed, just as amazed as he was. They smiled at him and started to sing: Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht… Nico looked at them, smiled back and started to sing his own version: Silent Night, Holy Night… He stood up straight, saluted them, turned and walked very tall back to his own trench. The singing from the German side grew louder and the Allies, now aware of the events from the Algerians, were all staring at Nico walking toward them as if he were strolling down the beach on a sunny day.
Hearing the Germans singing, they started to sing as well and soon one side tried to outdo the other. When the song ended the Allies heard a chorus of voices shouting: “We no shoot, you no shoot!”
Nico had rejoined his men and looked at the major who had been staring at the entire scene, totally dumbfounded. “What do you say, Major?”
“We can’t trust those buggers!”
“Well, I don’t disagree, but on the other hand they didn’t kill me when they had a chance to and we really don’t have anything to lose. On the contrary, we have a chance to rest and to be human beings, if for just one civilized night of this damn war.”
“The brass will have my ass for this, I’m sure,” the major said.
“Yes, sir,” Nico said saluting. He turned toward the German trench and shouted. “WE NO SHOOT, YOU NO SHOOT! FROHE WEIHNACHTEN!!”
And the Germans answered back: “WE NO SHOOT, YOU NO SHOOT! HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!!” They started singing again with O Tannenbaum. The Allies joined in with Oh, Christmas Tree. At that moment, from the German trenches, small fir trees decorated with candles were lit and placed on the parapets. The Allies followed, raising their own trees in their trenches. The friendly competition was now in full scale as both sides sang the same songs in more than one language by men from France, Germany, Belgium, England, Wales, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, the United States, and Nico from Greece. Even the Algerians hummed along.
“Hey, Fritz, do you know this one?” One of the Allied soldiers shouted. ”It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go…”
The Germans took the bait and came back with: ”Es ist sehr weit zu Tipperary, Es ist sehr weit zu geh’n…”
The soldiers continued for hours with Christmas carols and other songs and then a single voice rang out: clear, powerful, with exquisite diction and unmistakably operatic. There were no sounds, from either side, other than this one booming, perfectly trained voice from the German trench.
“My God, what a range that man has,” the major said, “he must be an opera singer!”
“Of course!” Nico exclaimed, “that’s Walter Kirchhoff, a brilliant tenor from the Berlin Imperial Opera!”
Men on both sides continued to listen, floating on the voice of the singer, listening to each of his words, saying prayers to their God and asking for His blessing and protection.
“Oh, we can handle that,” the major said. Nico looked at him wondering what he was up to. “Get me Victor! On the double!” He shouted to one of the soldiers.
“Sir, yes, sir!” The young soldier said running off. A few minutes later he came back with another soldier.
“Nico, meet Victor,” the major said, introducing them. It was the first time the major used any first names.
Standing in front of them was the imposing tenor from the Paris Opera, Victor Gravier. “I am truly honored, Monsieur Gravier,” Nico said saluting him.
“Non, non, Lieutenant, it is Caporal Gravier these days. Please, excusez-moi, it is time to deal with the devil—but this one is no Mephistopheles.” Gravier went to the middle of the trench and became Gounod’s Faust.
Gravier’s voice traveled across No Man’s Land and reached the ears of the German troops. Once again there was more magic on Christmas Eve. It did not come from a corporal, or a tenor, or from the doctor of philosophy Faust, but from the sounds that emanated from a single man—the peace of music that connected every soul of every human being present, on this historic night, this war’s only silent night, Christmas Eve, 1914.
♫
CHAPTER 20
The American troops arrived in France at the end of June of 1917. By then the Allied soldiers had been fighting for three years and were exhausted by years of trench warfare. During the hot summer of 1918 Nico and his unit returned to their trench and gave their superiors the information from their mission.
“Major, the Gerries know we are going to charge the hill and they plan to use mustard gas,” Nico said.
“Why in God’s name can’t men fight clean? Why did they have to invent these horror chemicals?” The major seethed.
“The war has been raging for four years. The enemy is being defeated. They’re desperate and using every resource they can think of.”
“It’s inhuman!”
“This entire infernal war is.”
The American Marines were ordered to put their gas masks on and take the hill. They donned their elongated face gear and headed up. It was a hot summer day and they sweat profusely. The Germans watched them come closer. They saw the Marines advancing like a pack of mad dogs, growling and killing everything in their way, their eyes bloodshot and their mouths foaming inside the snout-looking mask as they recklessly and courageously scrambled on all fours up the steep hill.
“Teufelshunde! Teufelshunde!” One of the German soldiers yelled as he retreate
d in fear. Under his mask Nico had to grin. Yes, his beloved American buddies were ‘dogs from hell” indeed, Devil Dogs extraordinaire.
The Doughboys—a nickname for the American soldiers acquired from the unique globular brass buttons reminiscent of dumplings—and the Marines, baptized Devil Dogs by the Germans, pushed forward to stop the advance of the German forces. They were greatly outnumbered. With the information supplied by Nico’s unit, and the spirit of the fresh men on the battlefield, they held their ground at Belleau Wood and Château-Thierry. At St. Mihiel Nico and his men joined the push as troops drove the Germans out of the Argonne.
It was still impossible to get any real sleep. Nico was resting in the trench half dozing. His missions were night missions and when they returned it was continuous noise—from machine guns, shellings, explosions, rifles, and the screams—the last sound of dying men. Nico had recurring nightmares, especially the one of that day in Oniraki as a boy when he woke up surrounded by death. Here, it was the same. He was constantly in a mass grave, but this time he saw them die.
“Look! Up there!” A soldier screamed. The men looked up to see a squadron of German fighters. They were in formation led by a red Fokker three-winged plane.
“They’re going to drop bombs on us!” Another cried.
“No! Wait! There’s an Allied squadron, ready to meet them,” another cried out, pointing toward the heavens.
“Damn. This is going to be bad,” Nico said, “there must be about thirty planes up there. The skies are going to get ugly and bloody.” No sooner had he finished his sentence did the men see the red plane dive—a crazy dive, a killer dive.
“That bastard Richthofen. That’s why he’s got eighty kills, he has no mercy,” the first soldier said.
“Wish he was on our side,” the other grumbled.