Spies of the Balkans

carefully. You are crucial to the way our city works; you are crucial, in our opinion, to Greece itself.

“Two further things I would ask: please do not question me when I’m done speaking. For reasons ranging from the unknown future to state security, I won’t be able to answer. And, second, please don’t seek us out later and ask for our assistance. If this information seems useful and you wish to act on it, you’ll do so as you see fit. And if you must share this information, you may do that as well-but choose carefully who you tell and don’t say where it came from. Do I have your agreement?” He looked around the room, all were silent, their faces deadly serious. Zannis watched as the golden hair moved slightly, then was still.

“Very well,” the colonel said, finality in his voice. “Our war with Italy continues, we are certainly winning, though for the moment we’ve reached stalemate in central Albania, and we anticipate an Italian counteroffensive in the spring. No matter, we’ll drive them back. And I know you will agree that the very last word that can describe the Greek armed services, or indeed almost any Greek, is defeatist.” Again he looked around the room, as though to challenge anyone who might, even privately, contradict this assertion. Then, after a pause, a muscle ticked in his cheek and he said, “However …”

What followed was known, in military terminology, as a “strategic appreciation,” though phrased for a civilian audience and stripped of any reference that might reveal secret information. Much of what Simonides said was known to the people in the room. Or, rather, it was believed to be true. Roumania and Hungary had signed treaties with Germany; Yugoslavia and Bulgaria had so far refused to do so. So far. The Greek General Staff had undertaken studies-a nice word for it, Zannis thought-indicating that, with the April thaw in the Balkans, this situation would change and, once the Wehrmacht moved across the Yugoslav and Bulgarian borders, Greece would be next. Metaxas, as premier of Greece, would not give way under pressure, so there would be war with Germany. “We,” the colonel said, “will fight hard, and the British will fight by our side, but, when a nation of seventy-five million goes to war with a nation of eight million, the outcome will not long be in question. And what we are suggesting tonight is that you prepare yourselves for that eventuality.”

Simonides paused and let that sink in. “In time, Hitler will be defeated, after, we calculate, a long and difficult war. Here there will be occupation, resistance, and insurgency, and then, when the war is over, Greece will have to, once again, as we did after we drove out the Turks, restore itself as a state. On that day, we judge that the people in this room will be of significant help, will play an important role in the recovery. So we want you alive. And, by the way, you might give some thought to the fact that the Germans will soon learn who you are. People just like yourselves have been murdered in Poland-an attempt to behead potential resistance-and we don’t want you to share that fate.”

After a moment, he went on. “As to what you may do, and how you do it, that’s clearly up to you. We invite you here tonight to tell you only that it is not too soon to begin preparation. That is, I fear, the only way you can secure the safety of yourselves and your immediate families.” He paused, then said, “Thank you for attending this meeting,” turned on his heel, and left the room.

For a time, nobody said a word. Then the man standing next to Zannis turned to him and introduced himself. Mid-fifties, eyeglasses, balding, nobody who would stand out in a crowd. “You’re Costa Zannis, aren’t you?” he said. “From the police department.”

“I am. And what is it that you do in Salonika?”

“I’m the traffic manager for the railroads. What do you make of all this?”

“I’m not sure. ‘Get out while you can’? Something like that.”

“And will you?”

“No, I’ll stay. And you?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. Where would I go?” He shrugged, said he thought he’d get himself a coffee, and headed for the table by the door.

Zannis again searched the room. Now he was rewarded! Demetria Vasilou was standing in back of a sofa, in conversation with an older woman. She was listening with apparent interest but then, just for a moment, she turned toward him, and smiled. Not the smile of an actress, just the briefest acknowledgment that she was aware of him, that she knew who he was, that she remembered him. Then she returned to the conversation. She wore, that night, an ice-blue blouse, again with a pearl necklace, and a soft, gray wool skirt, not exactly snug, but tight enough to reveal her shape. Now she began to talk to the woman opposite her, not frivolous but making some kind of point. She folded her arms above her waist and leaned backward, so that the top edge of the sofa pressed into the curve of her ample derriere, for one second, then another. As she straightened up, and the woman in front of her began to speak, she glanced at him again and, just for an instant, their eyes met.

His mind raced. Had he seen what he thought he’d seen? Did it mean what he thought it meant? I want you. No, no, impossible. Tired of standing, she’d simply taken a moment to lean on a sofa, and desire had led him to believe it was a gesture of seduction. But a voice from within knew better. A signal. Not overt, but not subtle either. That’s the way women do things. Don’t they? Perhaps? He stared at her; he couldn’t stop. Her profile was like, like …Now he remembered that Tasia had called her “the goddess,” as though people spoke of her in that way. An irony? Not to him. Well, enough, just go over there and talk to her. Be brave!

His foot never moved. The traffic manager materialized in front of him with two cups of coffee. Extending one of the cups he said, “I thought you might like a coffee.”

Zannis couldn’t escape. Heartsick, he watched as Vasilou appeared, took Demetria’s arm, and led his prize away.

22 January.

His letter confirming yet another arrival in Salonika crossed Emilia Krebs’s letter to the Royale Garment Company. Two men would be setting out from Berlin on the twenty-ninth, papers in the names of Brandt and Wald; both were university professors. This time, for a recognition signal, Brandt, who wore a trimmed beard, would carry a pair of gloves in his left hand. After Zannis had informed her of the difficulty at the Subotica border station, the refugees now went west, from Budapest to Zagreb, then back east to Novi Sad, and Belgrade. This deviation added another day to the journey, and Zannis could only hope they were making the right choice. Dipping his pen in the Panadon solution, he confirmed that day’s arrival and the departure of three refugees to Turkey. The following day, in the office, he sent teletype messages to Pavlic in Zagreb and Gustav Husar’s detective in Budapest. Wanted for questioning by the Salonika police: one WALD, one BRANDT, who wears a trimmed beard and has been known to carry a pair of gloves in his left hand. Believed to be arriving-then the dates-“by excursion steamer” to Budapest, “by express rail” to Zagreb. When the teletype messages had been confirmed, he returned to his desk. On a pad he printed Belgrade/Skoplje? Based on his questioning of the refugees at the Tobacco Hotel, he’d discovered that Emilia Krebs had an operative riding that train. He drew a box around what he’d written and went back over it, darkening the line. Only eye contact, from what the refugees said, but more than once-two or three times. “He was just making sure we were safe.” Only some of the refugees said it, and not the Gruens. Still, the ones who did report the man also said that he’d appeared on the platform at Skoplje. Once more, Zannis’s pencil traced the box. He would write again, to the Kalcher und Krohn attorneys, that night. He had to ask her. Who was it? Why hadn’t she told him? Because, God forbid, she might not know.

Later that morning he invited Gabi Saltiel to lunch. They left early-Smyrna Betrayed was always crowded-and took the most private table, in the corner. That day the taverna had a freshly caught octopus. A tentacle was hung from a hook in the kitchen ceiling, the customer would proceed to the kitchen, indicate the desired width of the portion, and one of the cooks would slice it off with a fearsomely sharp fish knife. Zannis didn’t much care for the knife, he’d too often seen what it could do as a weapon, back when he’d been a detective.

While they waited for their lunch-the slice, grilled over coals, turned sweet and was something like lobster- they lit cigarettes and drank ouzo.

“How are things at home?” Zannis said.

“As usual, nothing too exciting.” Saltiel paused, then said, “Thank heaven.” He stopped there and waited; he sensed Zannis had something he wanted to discuss.

“Gabi,” Zannis said. “I think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to talk about the future.”

Saltiel waited, what now?

“I’ve begun to hear things about the Germans. Maybe going into Bulgaria.”

“Real things? Or just … talk?”