Spies of the Balkans

“and leave these people to their madness.” The next morning, with a single telephone call, he procured exit visas for a week-long vacation in Basel. He did not have to visit an office, he simply sent a clerk over for the papers. “The general’s aide asked that I convey the general’s warmest wishes for a pleasant stay in Switzerland,” said the clerk, as he handed Adler a manila envelope. No more than expected, from this general, for Adler had made him a very wealthy general indeed.

It was a long drive, ten hours, from Frankfurt to the Swiss border, but Emilia Krebs and her grandfather were comfortable in the luxurious Mercedes automobile. The cook, saddened because she suspected she would never see them again, had made up a large packet of sandwiches, smoked liverwurst and breast of chicken, and filled a large thermos with coffee. The cook knew what they knew: that even traveling in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, and looking like powerful and protected people, it was better not to stop. There were Nazi luminaries everywhere along the way and when they drank, which was often, they were liable to forget their manners. The chauffeur drove steadily through the gusty March weather, Emilia Krebs and her grandfather watched the towns go by and, even though the glass partition assured them privacy, only conversed now and then.

“How many did you save, Emmi?” the elder Adler asked.

“I believe it was forty, at least that. We lost one man who was arrested at the Hungarian border, we never learned why, and a pair of sisters, the Rosenblum sisters, who simply vanished. They were librarians, older women; God only knows what happened to them. But that was in the early days, we managed better later on.”

“I am proud of you, Emmi, do you know that? Forty people.”

“We did our best,” she said.

And then, for a time, they did not speak, lost in their own thoughts. Emilia didn’t cry, mostly she didn’t, she held it in, and kept a handkerchief in her hand for the occasional lapse. Her grandfather was, in his way, also brokenhearted. Seven hundred years of family history in Germany, gone. Finally he said, some minutes later, “It was the honorable thing to do.”

She nodded, in effect thanking him for kind words. But we pay a price for honor, she thought.

So now she paid, so did her husband, so did her grandfather, and, for that matter, so would the Yugoslavs, and the Greeks. Such a cruel price. Was it always thus? Perhaps, it was something she couldn’t calculate, life had somehow grown darker, at times it did. Perhaps that was what people meant by the phrase the world is coming apart. But mostly you couldn’t question what they meant, because mostly they said it to themselves.

Hours later, they reached the Swiss border. The German customs officer glanced at their papers, put two fingers to the brim of his cap, and waved them through. The Swiss officer, as the striped barrier bar was lowered behind them, did much the same. And then they drove on, a few minutes more, into the city of Basel.

29 March. There was little to do in the office-only Sibylla and Zannis there now, and Saltiel’s bare desk, his photographs gone. The telephone rang now and then, the Salonika detective units continuing to work because they might as well, while they were waiting. Zannis read the newspaper as long as he could stand it, then threw it in the wastebasket. German troop formations moving south, diplomats said this and that; now it was only a matter of time.

“What will you do, Sibylla, when we close the office? Do you need help? With anything?”

“I’ve made my arrangements, chief.”

“Yes?”

“I have a job, as a bookkeeper, at the hotel where my husband works. Nice people, the couple that own the place.”

“And if the Germans question you?”

“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t, but, if they should, I don’t know anything, I was just a secretary. And there’s a chance they’ll never know I was here. The owners said they would backdate the employment records, if I wanted them to.”

“Will you do that?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided.” After a moment she said, “I don’t know what you have in mind, but, whatever that might be, if you need somebody to help out you only have to ask.”

“Thank you, Sibylla.”

Zannis sat out the day, then went up to see his family at six. This he dreaded, and found what he’d known he would: the chaos of departure. The open suitcases, piles of clothing that were never going to fit, a blackened pot that sat on the table, waiting for a miracle. In the middle of all this, his mother was cooking a lamb roast. “We have a lot to give away,” she said.

“Why not just leave it here?”

“It will be stolen.”

“Oh, you can’t be sure of that.”

His mother didn’t answer.

“The Naxos sails at one-thirty,” he said. “We’ll go an hour early.”

“Well, we have packing to do in the morning. The bedding….”

Zannis found the retsina and poured himself a generous portion. “One for me too, Constantine,” his grandmother said, staring at a ladle, then putting it aside.

The following morning, he telephoned Sibylla and told her he wouldn’t be in the office until later, maybe two o’clock. Then he set out for the central market, Melissa rambling along with him, for the errand he couldn’t face but now had to. After hunting through the goods in several stalls, he bought a khaki pouch with a shoulder strap, possibly meant for ammunition, from some army in the city’s history. Returning home, he went to the kitchen, washed Melissa’s dinner and water bowls, wrapped them in newspaper, settled them in the pouch, and added her leash; she might just have to wear it. Then he went into the other room, but Melissa wasn’t there.

The door to the apartment stood open. He only locked it at night, its latch hadn’t worked for years, Melissa could push it open with her head. Oh no. Hoping against hope, he looked under the bed. No dog. “Melissa? Melissa!”

She knew. Strange mountain beast, she knew what it meant-her only possessions packed up in a khaki pouch.

Zannis trotted down the stairs. He’d thought this through-there was no possibility she could stay with him. Fighting in the mountain villages meant near starvation-crops burned, houses destroyed-and the animals, even beloved animals, didn’t survive it. Out on Santaroza Lane, he called her name, again and again, but there was only morning silence.

He set out on her daily route, finding no help along the way because the street was deserted. He went as far as the corniche, then worked back toward the top of the lane, past the fountain, searching every alley and looking at his watch. By now, he was supposed to be with the family. Where had she gone? Finally he turned into the alley where a neighbor kept her chicken coop and, at the very end, there she was. Lying on her stomach, head resting on crossed paws, looking as miserably sad as any dog he’d ever seen. He squatted by her side and stroked her head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You know you’re going away, don’t you. Well, good girl, it has to be. Now you have to take care of the family.” When he stood up, so did she, and walked back to the apartment, head carried low, close to his side. Facing the inevitable.

He arrived at the house in the Turkish quarter after eleven and shooed the family along in the last hectic stages of packing-God only knew what would be forgotten. He made sure that his mother put a packet of money in a safe place-the envelope pinned to the inside of her coat. Made Ari responsible for Melissa’s traveling bag, looping the strap over his shoulder. Secured his grandmother’s valise with a length of cord. And found a taxi.

By twelve-thirty they reached the dock; the Naxos already had steam up. Spreading out from the foot of the gangway, a great mob of people, some two hundred of them. And loud-babies wailing, people arguing and swearing, or shouting to friends. He maneuvered the family toward the gangway, then settled in to wait until they would be permitted to board. The tickets! Frantically he patted his clothing, eventually discovering he’d moved them to a safer pocket. Now a few harassed customs officials appeared and tried to form the mob, hauling trunks and suitcases and bags, into a line. But, clearly, that wasn’t going to work.

Suddenly, gunfire.

The rhythmic thump of Bofors cannon. Amid screams, as people dove to the ground, Zannis searched the