To Look on Death No More

by Leta Serafim

  He heard no birdsong as he walked, no noise at all, save for the rushing water. Even the crows, heavy in the trees, had fallen silent

  Shivering, he picked up the pace. The trees were stippled with rain, their bare branches skeletal against the sky. Although he was very tired, he pushed on, determined to reach the camp before nightfall. Bands of ice were forming along the edge of the river, freezing in lacy whorls and ripples. Tapping his foot against the ice, he watched it splinter and break up. The crackling was louder than he’d expected and he drew back, afraid someone might have heard. The sky remained overcast, the distant mountains dusted with snow.

  He studied the canyon walls, searching for movement, but there was none. Save for the burned trucks in the gorge, the war didn’t seem to have touched this place. Someone had even seen to the dead, buried them beside the river.

  Taking a deep breath, he sprinted across the bridge, made for the path and started to climb, walking as fast as he dared.

  The antartes were eating supper when he arrived at the camp. Roumelis greeted him warmly, pulled him down close to the fire and handed him a plate of stewed meat. The rest of the men nodded once to O’Malley and went on with their eating. No one mentioned Stefanos.

  Tugging off his wet boots, O’Malley relaxed by the fire. The flokati was rank, steamed a little as it dried. Between mouthfuls, he told the men the Germans were coming. “We need to shut down the camp and be quick about it.”

  “ ‘We?’ ” Haralambos’ lips were pursed.

  “You then. Just as long as it gets down.” He hastily relayed what Leonidas had discovered in Kalavryta, that a known traitor was discussing the location of the camp. Leonidas had written a note to this effect and he handed it now to Haralambos. The school teacher read it, crumpled it up and threw it in the fire.

  “He’s right. We need to leave.”

  At O’Malley’s request, Leonidas had used no names, said nothing about the identity of the collaborator. He’d simply stated the facts: the Germans had discovered the location of the camp and the antartes must go and go fast. If they stayed, it would be all-out war, the enemy throwing everything they had at them—planes, tanks, flame throwers—an onslaught no one could survive. He himself would try again to meet with von Le Suire, stall the Germans as long as he could.

  * * *

  Leonidas’ voice was stripped of emotion. “Again, von Le Suire refused to negotiate. Bastard said he will only meet with members of the right wing—EDES—not us, not with ‘the communist forces of ELAS.’ ”

  They’d been packing up the camp when Leonidas arrived, hadn’t yet finished. His friend was exhausted, O’Malley saw. He had dark circles under his eyes and could barely stand. He must have been walking for hours.

  “They exhumed the bodies of four dead Germans in Tripoli,” he went on. “I imagine they’ll do the same with the dead men in the gorge. The German high command is investigating every death, apparently. Looking to see how the men died, whether it was from wounds received in battle or if they’d been executed.”

  He dipped his cup in the pail and took a deep swallow of water. “Best keep the prisoners alive,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Give them no cause.”

  “How can we feed them?” Roumelis protested. “We are running out of food.”

  The group appeared to be about evenly divided. Half the men were for executing the Germans, the other half against it. Their motives were complicated. One man went so far as to say it’d be a kindness, shooting them, far better than letting them starve to death. Alexis was the most vocal, urging the others to throw them off the cliff.

  Surprisingly, Haralambos opposed him. “Remember what the priest said. The Germans will destroy Kalavryta. Remember that.”

  He’d distanced himself from Alexis, O’Malley noticed. He wondered how it would go in the future between the two men. Who would be Trotsky, who Stalin, the one wielding the ice pick?

  O’Malley didn’t participate in the debate. As far as he was concerned, Roumelis was right. There wasn’t enough food left to keep them all alive. Whether the antartes shot the prisoners or not, it was all going to end the same way: the Germans would die.

  The next morning a man brought a message to Leonidas from ELAS headquarters. Leonidas refused to reveal its contents with O’Malley. “A new set of orders,” was all he said. He seemed deeply troubled.

  He and a few other men withdrew shortly after and spoke in low voices. They began to argue heatedly, waving O’Malley away when he approached, saying that what they were discussing was no concern of his. At one point, Alexis pointed to himself and said, “Tha to kano.” I’ll do it.

  The group dispersed a few minutes later. Leonidas announced they would be taking the prisoners with them when they broke camp. If they perished from hunger along the way, well, they’d started the war, hadn’t they?

  “Let’s get started.”

  Alexis took it upon himself to announce to the prisoners they would soon be set free. In a long speech worthy of a party leader, he told them that General von Le Suire had agreed to the terms of the exchange and that it was scheduled to take place the following day. The prisoners would remain in ELAS custody until that time and should comport themselves accordingly. They would march single file to German headquarters, a journey of some ten kilometers, where they would be handed over.

  When he finished, he shook hands with their commanding officer and thanked him in advance for his cooperation.

  The POWs cheered when Hans translated Alexis’ words into German, laughing and babbling together. “Frei sind wir den. Freiheit!” We’re free. Freedom!

  The antartes quickly bound each of the prisoner’s wrists together and tied them to a second, longer length of rope. After they finished, they set water out for them to drink, what bread there was left in the camp and a bucket of trahana. Bound as they were, the prisoners would have to eat like dogs, O’Malley saw. Fight for every mouthful of food.

  Although it was contrary to everything he’d been taught by the Catholic priests at St. Joseph’s, he rejoiced at the prospect of the Germans groveling, struggling there on the ground for a miserable bite of trahana, rejoiced with all his heart that they would suffer.

  Haunted by the death of Stefanos, he’d avoided being around them since returning to the camp. The Greeks, too, for that matter. Spent his time out in the field, caring for the horses. None of the antartes had noticed that the boy was missing. The thought made O’Malley even sadder. Like him, Stefanos had been alone up here. No wonder he had run away.

  “Ach, Specky.”

  Only Grigoris had spoken openly of the child’s absence. “Barrel’s empty. Where is Stefanos?”

  “Dead, lad. The Germans shot him.”

  “Dead?!”

  “Aye. In a field far from here. It was terrible.”

  Joining the other men, O’Malley labored to dismantle the camp. He helped Fotis pack up the radio and ammunition, then borrowed an axe and hacked up the barrel where Stefanos had taken shelter, chopping away at it until it was reduced to splinters.

  Setting the axe aside, he paused to catch his breath. Grigoris must have spread the word, he thought, looking down at the broken staves, the mess of wood chips and splinters at his feet. The antartes hadn’t said a word about what he was doing. They just stood around and watched him.

  Behind barbed wire, the Germans watched him, too, pacing back and forth in their little corral. O’Malley swung the axe high in the air and brought it smashing down on the last of the staves. They were right to be afraid, he thought, gripping the handle of the axe tighter. Given half a chance, he’d smash their skulls in with the thing. Pound them into the ground and kill them, same as their friends had done Stefanos.

  Merciless, it’d be, a deed like that, but understandable, given the circumstances. After all, they’d started the war, hadn’t they?

  Shouldering the axe, he walked away. To hell with them.

  * * *

  Elektra je
rked her head away when O’Malley slipped the bit in her mouth. “Easy now. Easy.”

  Throwing the saddle on her back, he secured it, then picked up the pile of bedrolls and lashed it to her as well. Hoisting himself up, he rode back and forth, testing the load for balance, not wanting the weight of it to unseat him, pull the two of them off the mountain.

  Remembering how much Stefanos had loved the horse, his eyes filled with tears. He brushed them away, thankful for the darkness.

  He hadn’t wanted to make the journey, but Leonidas had insisted.

  “You can’t go back to Kalavryta, not now. Germans catch you anywhere near the village, they’ll burn the place. Von Le Suire’s looking for an excuse.”

  As always, he’d taken care to address O’Malley as an equal, kept his tone respectful and polite. “Stay with us a little longer, my friend.”

  Reluctantly, O’Malley had agreed. He was glad of that now; it was better to be on the move. Better than losing oneself to ghosts. He’d find his way back to Kalavryta after they rid themselves of the prisoners. When there weren’t so many German soldiers prowling the hills. He’d help Danae and her family. Maybe they could spend Christmas together.

  Alexis and another man were leading the prisoners out of the camp. As before, the German, ‘Homeros,’ was translating for the rest. He’d sensed the antartes’ change of mood and was all business. “Why are we here? Where are you taking us?”

  “We’re closing the camp. Moving you out.”

  Alexis jerked the rope, forcing the prisoners to follow like dogs on a leash.

  “Keep moving,” he shouted.

  Roumelis was the last to leave. He was leading a pair of donkeys with tin pans and heavy sacks of grain strapped to them. The weight of the load was tearing into their backs, leaving raw patches in the animals’ fur.

  O’Malley had always liked donkeys. Unlike in Greece, they were valued in Ireland; an aunt of his had cried bitter tears when hers died. She’d been married to a brutish man who’d cuffed her in public and treated her badly. “Poor friend,” she’d said, cradling the head of the dead beast. “Poor brother donkey. We were slaves together.”

  His pa cherished animals and always insisted that O’Malley be gentle to them. “Make no mistake; they are the same as you, only cloaked in fur and hooves and poor at talk. Always share what you have with them and treat them kindly.”

  Getting down from his horse, O’Malley loosened the straps on the donkeys and did what he could for them. Wishing he had some liniment, he used the bandages he’d brought from Ireland and pasted them over the open sores. He tore his bedroll in half and laid it on their backs as a saddle blanket.

  After O’Malley finished, the cook dug out a bottle of raki and handed it to him.

  “May the giving hand never falter,” O’Malley said, taking a swig and handing the jug back. “You’re a right man, Roumelis, don’t I know it. Daylight’s own fellow.” The raki burned on the way down, set his insides on fire.

  The cook glanced back at the camp. “Feels strange to be leaving.”

  “You know this place we’re going?”

  “Sure. Mazeika. It’s up in the hills.”

  “Far from Kalavryta?”

  “Two kilometers, no more. A stone’s throw.”

  The trail was steep, almost straight up. Unwilling to risk Elektra, O’Malley got down from the saddle and led her with the reins. The others were ahead of him, over one hundred men making their way up the mountain. In spite of the ropes, the POWs were in a jovial mood and sang as they marched—Nazi songs, judging by from the sound. As the night wore on, they too fell silent.

  The moon was now directly overhead, the shadows of the trees like etchings against the pale rock. Far below, O’Malley could see the river and the legendary waterfall that was its source. Like a stream of liquid mercury, it was, cascading down from the shattered crest of the mountain. A mist was rising from the surface of the water. It seemed a thing alive under the moon, floating up from a secret place in the earth.

  The Greeks rode back and forth on their horses, herding their captives like cattle. The fog was soon everywhere and it gradually overtook them. Worried, Fotis suggested they light lanterns against it, but Leonidas forbade it, saying the Germans might see them. “If we stay together, it’ll be all right.”

  As before, he took the lead, spurring his steed forward. The others quickly followed, disappearing one by one into the mist. The fog eventually vanished, driven off by the rising wind, revealing the deep rift of the gorge again. O’Malley dropped back, preferring to be the last in line. Elektra was barely visible in the darkness, her labored breathing the only evidence of her presence. He crossed a small pond a few minutes later formed by run-off from the snow. The still water reflected the moon overhead, the ice along its banks like shards of broken glass.

  Leonidas drove them hard, pausing only to do reconnaissance before pushing on.

  They continued to climb. O’Malley recalled the area from a briefing in Cairo: Kalanistra, it was one of the highest points in the region. The wind was fierce and it whipped his clothes. A few clouds were rising from behind the mountain. Ragged lines of gray, they were ghostly in the moonlight.

  He wondered how Leonidas had found his way. There were no paths, no landmarks to judge distances by. Only the sky and a wilderness of stars. He could see the Milky Way, the neat symmetry of it, the North Star beckoning just below it, a few others that he recognized.

  A light seemed to be moving across the sky. A boat, he thought, in the Gulf of Corinth, the sea at one with the night sky. Too large for fishing, it was probably a German vessel patrolling the coast. The Wehrmacht had a large force in the city of Patras; it was their main area of supply. An infinite number of mountains stood between the antartes and the town, or so it seemed. Here and there he saw other lights. Villages, he thought, high up on the hills.

  The antartes had dismounted and were leading the prisoners toward the edge of the precipice. The slope was heavily forested, thick with cypress and fir. “You should pull back,” O’Malley called, coming forward to meet them. “The rocks aren’t steady.”

  Alexis was in the lead this time. The prisoners were still roped together, leaning against each another and struggling not to lose their balance. Alexis jerked the rope. Two other men were helping him, O’Malley saw. He didn’t know their names, but had seen them around the camp.

  He tried a second time to get their attention, more urgent now. “You’re too close. Pull back!”

  Alexis gave the rope a savage yank. The force knocked several of the prisoners down.

  Then O’Malley knew.

  Alexis first demanded the prisoners surrender whatever gear they’d been carrying, their greatcoats and their boots; then he ordered them at gunpoint to line up again. He and five other men dragged them over to the edge of the cliff, forcing them forward until the Germans began grappling, fighting to hang onto the rocks and secure a foothold, anything to keep from falling. Frightened, they began to resist, screaming and begging for mercy.

  The one called ‘Homeros’ was the most vocal, yelling in Greek for Alexis to stop. “Afto den einai sosto!” This isn’t right. He dropped to his knees and held up his bound hands. “Stamatiste! Stamatiste!” Stop. Stop.

  Alexis motioned for him to get up. The prisoners grew more and more restless, the ones in front backing into the men behind them, clawing and pushing at them as they tried to get away from the cliff. They were all yelling now, and a few had soiled themselves.

  Alexis raised his gun and shot the first POW in line. The man tumbled off the cliff, dragging the others down with him. The Germans screamed as they went over the side and reached out with their hands, their anguished cries echoing and reverberating in the darkness. The Greeks rushed forward and pitched the ones who hadn’t already fallen off the mountain. O’Malley could hear the sharp thump of their bodies as they hit the rocks, the wrenching animal sounds of the unlucky few who’d been impaled on the trees. Alexis and
the others fired off a few rounds to finish off the wounded, then shouldered their guns and retrieved their horses.

  In less than ten minutes, it was over.

  The silence that followed was far worse than the screams had been. It felt like an indictment to O’Malley. As if God Himself had turned His face away.

  Fotis was standing off to one side, tears running down his face. “I told them not to. I told them no good would come of it.”

  Haralambos and Leonidas were with Fotis, all of them well back from Alexis and the other two men. It was too dark to see their faces.

  “Why’d you do it?” O’Malley screamed. “For the love of God, why’d you kill them?”

  It was Haralambos who answered, “The order came from ELAS headquarters to move out. That was the message Leonidas received. There was no way we could take the POWs with us. We don’t have enough men to guard them, enough food to feed them.”

  “So you decided to kill them?!”

  “None of us was willing at first. Finally Alexis volunteered. We didn’t want to kill them near Kalavryta. That’s why we came this way. We thought if we did it here, the Germans would be less likely to discover the bodies.”

  He looked out at the night. “We are soldiers fighting for our country,” he said. “We had our orders.”

  * * *

  Crossing over the spur of the mountain, the antartes started down. The men were subdued; no one spoke for a long time. The majority took care to stay well away from Alexis and the men who’d assisted him.

  “Won’t help you,” O’Malley muttered, seeing what they were about. “The sin is ours. The blood is on all of us.”

  They were in a narrow valley, moving steadily west. It was overgrown with trees, a wild and inhospitable place. Centaurs had once lived here, one of the men said. O’Malley looked up at the shadowy walls. Aye, it was easy to imagine them here. All manner of pagan beasts.

  The men behind him were discussing a region to the south, a place called Mani. It remained Free Greece, they were saying, one of the few areas the Germans hadn’t conquered.